This is an anonymous guest post. Please be as supportive as you are with my own posts.
Do you have a hard time accepting compliments? I do. In fact, it makes me really uncomfortable. When people compliment me it makes me feel inadequate. Because if they really knew me they’d know I didn’t deserve those compliments.
In the last three days, three close friends have said wonderful things about me. Really wonderful things. Things I know they believe.
They’ve made me feel like running away from them so I won’t disappoint them. But I say thanks. I joke that it’s about time someone noticed how awesome I am. And with the oldest friend who knows me best, I took the joke too far and kicked up his spidey senses, resulting in questions, resulting in awkward silences and changing of subjects.
And I talked about other serious things with him: things that I doubt about myself, ways in which I’m disappointed with my life. All a finely measured sacrifice so I wouldn’t have to answer the real question.
I hate myself for misleading him, for pretending to share when really I was deflecting.
I hate myself.
I don’t know why it’s so hard to tell someone. I can write it perfectly easily: I hate myself. I hate myself. I’m ugly and bitter and not a nice person at all. I’m fat and lack the self-control to lose weight. I’m impatient and blame others for my problems. I’m a drain on the lives of those around me. I’m a crappy mother and a stupidly self-sacrificing wife who only sacrifices so she can be “better.” And I’m lazy.
In the last week three people have said I’m awesome. What does awesome mean? What does it say about me? That I’ve managed to hide how bad I am enough to delude them.
Last week one person said what he really thought. He says it every weekend, just about. When forced to spend time with me and the kids amidst the utter badness of me, he loses it. He tells me exactly what a failure I am. And I try to defend myself but mostly I just beg him to go away. To come back when he’s feeling better. Because I’d rather live in the temporary dream of happiness than admit how deep our descent is.
The funny thing is, he’s the one with the mental illness and I’m the one who supports him; who loves him in sickness and in health; who forgives his transgressions.
The funnier thing is that I think he’s literally driving me crazy.