I have had these feelings ever since I can remember. There are days where I do not want to get out of bed, and often enough, feel like committing suicide. It is a phenomenological event that has neither description nor an accessible entry point. In other words, the normal (if I can speak to it) feelings of incompetence and unworthiness are pervasive. Everyone has these feelings from time to time, usually in light of comparing abilities and/or results. What I speak of is a foundational crack in a person’s identity.

These insidious and intrusive thoughts/feelings pull from past expereinces, yet I experience them as though they were recurring just as strong as their initial onset. On some level, it’s as though I were traumatized.

I may be unable to describe the depth of the shame that is inside me, but I can describe part of the process.

I have always been one to strive for perfection. I work tirelessly, going beyond the call. My understanding and drive surpasses those around me. If I was to say that my IQ or genetics are superior, I would be lying to you and myself. My performance is motivated by fear of rejection, and need for acknowledgement. By creating a veritable trap, I get what I need.

I create a space where those around me require my attention and participation. By doing that, they not only ask for my help, but praise me for the results. Do flies compliment the spider for creating the web that trapped them? As my “friend’s” supposed needs are met, so too do they reciprocate. This cycle can continue until I screw up.

Then, I am reminded of what really afflicts me; an unbearable self-hatred and emptiness. Somehow I have twisted performance into human dignity. I feel as though I am only as good as what I produce; but, even worse, it must meet the approval of the person I produced it for. Where is the internal gratification?

Mother’s day made me reflect on this. For mother’s day, my father was unable to summon the strength to go out for dinner. Although I knew it to be a decision that would haunt me, I chose to take my mother out by myself. When I related this choice to my mother, her response foreshadowed the terrible experience I would have with her. “But you don’t like me.”

It is no surprise that I am not fond of her. She lacks the empathetic nature needed for the basic human connection we all desire. Yet, on the way to dinner, she gave me a small ray of hope, just to dash it to pieces.

She asked me to tell her one “good thing” about her being my mother. I clenched the steering wheel, and looked away. Why is she having me do this now? I attempted to dodge her question by asking her why she wanted to know. She got upset to the point of screaming at me. So, I softened my voice and told her that it must have been difficult raising her kids, but we all turned out to be successful in the areas of life we chose to engage in.

Smash cut to us sitting at the table eating dinner. She started berating me in front of everyone. She said that I should have been out of the house because “your brothers have grown up” and are out of the house. Apparently, maturity is based upon whether or not you still live at your parent’s house. She continued on telling me that I was horrible, and it was “too bad you turned out the way you did.”

After her saying that, I sat and thought about the dynamic. I had just told her a positive thing in her life involving the success of her children associated with her involvement. Now, she completely discredited it. I decided to be tactful about this. Instead of arguing with her, I looked her in the eyes, eyes that were full of hate and disgust for me, and said, “Since I told you one good thing about you being my mother, you tell me one good thing about me being your son.” She sat in her seat for a few seconds, slowly shook her said, and replied, “There is nothing.” I wish I could say I was shaken, but I will explain the lack of such a reaction later. I responded saying, “Surely dad would have something to say.” She replied with the same disgust, “No he wouldn’t.” I said, “I know he would…” And she wrapped up the conversation by saying, “Well then he would be lying.”

I would be surprised by this, but this conversation was much more tame than others we have had. When I was younger (ages 5 – 15), she would tell my brothers and I that we were “worth less than dirt.” This was usually in the context of us not completing chores properly. Even if we did indeed finish them, she would say we “didn’t do them with the right heart.” God I hate her.

As an older man, I can defend myself against these attacks. I know my worth now, but there are times when the emptiness from my childhood comes back. In these dark times, I feel so insignificant. They usually come at critical times.

As a result, I create a fake world to fill up the emptiness. It definitely satiates, but only temporarily. Deep inside, I still feel ashamed of things I should not feel ashamed about.

I ask myself why do I continue to exist? I have nothing to give. Who would want me?

I internalized my mother’s voice along with her face of disgust. Her message was clear; who could love someone so unworthy of love.

I write this as a piece of awareness. I know there are others who have experienced such life minimizing experiences. Please do not lose hope. You are worth everything any other human deserves. Give yourself some room to appreciate what you have, and those who have you.