"Wherever an inferiority complex exists, there is a good reason for it." - Carl Jung Interview, 1943
“Hey! Check your email once in a while, why don’t ya. Call me.” The answering machine beeped as I scratched my elbow."
“Who the hell is that,” I wonder. I don’t recognize the voice. It is a man’s voice and it sounds like he’s using a cell phone in a wind storm. I continue scratching my elbow, hoping that the scaly patch under my fingernail crumbles and disappears. The lotion I got at the 99-Cent store is useless against the itchy desert of my skin these days. Not enough water. Maybe cutting back on the carbs is causing problems, too. My trickster mind always finds a way to justify my junk food addiction. It doesn’t care that my bulk detracts from any good looks I still possess. I should care more, erm… I want to care more. Okay, okay. I do care, but not right now.
"Well, well, well,” I read the latest email from Mr. “Call me.” It's from my ex husband. “He’s still charming as ___,” and my mind fills in the blank with “not." He never was charming. Talented, exciting, alien, dangerous are better words to describe him and maybe irresponsible, selfish, capricious, Gemini esque, enough said. Every woman has one in her past and I am grateful that my past is so long ago. He wants me to venture out, in the middle of the week, to some club on the far Westside, and hear his new band. I roll my eyes; continue scratching my elbow, and tune in to the sarcastic voice in my head for a while. I politely decline this invitation using a minimum of words and human warmth.
,,,
His rejection was the first hammer blow against my healthy ego and it took me a long time to excrete enough delusion and “self love” to cover over the inferiority gouges and self-doubt chips. He is the product of a very dysfunctional family, filled with money, divorces, backstabbing, overdoses, suicide and mistrust. He is the most together and emotionally healthy of them all and I am happy that he made it out alive, but I learned that pain begets pain. There is and was nothing personal about the pain he inflicted on me and his son. He does better than his father before him and I know his son will do better about inflicting pain than his father. So, why do I still feel inferior and damaged?
Time heals wounds. This is true. Many wounds that he inflicted are healed and because of modern psychiatry, my one true love, family, and friends, hardly any scars show. There is a big fissure somewhere around the heart muscle, though. The distance between the jagged edges is almost non existent now, but there is still distance, a distance filled with memories.
,,,
“What’s wrong with you tonight, my friend?” She asked.
"Nothing. Why?” I replied. I was shocked. Did I look worried? Why ask that question, I wondered.
“There’s something wrong. You look tired and … I don’t know, but there’s something wrong with you, tonight. Tell us.” She was aggressive and persistent. It was her house and everyone was looking at me, waiting for me to figure out what to say.
“I’m really surprised about your question. I don’t think anything’s wrong. Well, maybe I’m worried about the economy, but everyone is, right?” I was baffled that these friends detected the whiff of discontent and self-hatred that I keep sealed behind my protective coating of self delusion.
“How’s your son,” she persisted.
“How’s your mother-in-law?” another friend asked.
“Oh, my gawd,” I thought, “not the mother-in-law question, not tonight.” But, they wanted to penetrate the shield and my m-i-l is an endless source of inferiority and self-doubt, so I talked about her for a good ten minutes, relieving my spleen and giving something juicy to the inquisition. Well, that was what I thought, but not what they wanted.
“I’m glad you opened up, Kathy. Do you feel a little better, maybe?”
I assured my friends that I felt better. It is true. I feel as if the ton of bad feelings is a bit lighter and I am glad to have friends that are willing to sift through my gushing shit and turn some of it into nurturing compost. The rest of this smelly stuff is hanging out there in space, waiting to weasel itself between the jagged edges, making the heart fissure wider. I want to believe that the stuff moved on that night. I want to believe that human kindness and friendly concern smoothed some jagged edges. I want to believe that something as simple as a question and something as complex as a truthful response will bring healing.
I want to believe. Maybe that’s enough.
"Nothing. Why?” I replied. I was shocked. Did I look worried? Why ask that question, I wondered.
“There’s something wrong. You look tired and … I don’t know, but there’s something wrong with you, tonight. Tell us.” She was aggressive and persistent. It was her house and everyone was looking at me, waiting for me to figure out what to say.
“I’m really surprised about your question. I don’t think anything’s wrong. Well, maybe I’m worried about the economy, but everyone is, right?” I was baffled that these friends detected the whiff of discontent and self-hatred that I keep sealed behind my protective coating of self delusion.
“How’s your son,” she persisted.
“How’s your mother-in-law?” another friend asked.
“Oh, my gawd,” I thought, “not the mother-in-law question, not tonight.” But, they wanted to penetrate the shield and my m-i-l is an endless source of inferiority and self-doubt, so I talked about her for a good ten minutes, relieving my spleen and giving something juicy to the inquisition. Well, that was what I thought, but not what they wanted.
“I’m glad you opened up, Kathy. Do you feel a little better, maybe?”
I assured my friends that I felt better. It is true. I feel as if the ton of bad feelings is a bit lighter and I am glad to have friends that are willing to sift through my gushing shit and turn some of it into nurturing compost. The rest of this smelly stuff is hanging out there in space, waiting to weasel itself between the jagged edges, making the heart fissure wider. I want to believe that the stuff moved on that night. I want to believe that human kindness and friendly concern smoothed some jagged edges. I want to believe that something as simple as a question and something as complex as a truthful response will bring healing.
I want to believe. Maybe that’s enough.
