What's The Bloody Point?Hi. I suppose writing about a lifelong habit of self-loathing is a sign that I still hold out hope at the relatively advanced age of 51 that I can do something to stop the critical voices in my head. I grew up as the adopted child of working class parents, who as flawed as they were, loved me and did the best they could by me. I don't remember how young I was when they told me I was adopted. but it feels as though I always knew. It was never an issue for them or for me. They were my parents in every meaningful sense of the word. End of story.
My paternal grandmother was the first person in my life for whom I could do nothing right. As I learned towards the end of my father's life, she had pronounced that I wasn't like her other grandchildren because I was adopted. Damaged goods. My adult self realizes that she was also reflecting the prejudices of her generation, but to this I day I still think she's a *****. The point of every visit to her home seemed to be to humiliate me, and for some sick reason my father would stand by and let it happen, hoping it would toughen up his little sissy boy.
Because you see, I felt I was gay from probably about seven years of age. I would get this boy crushes, and while I don't think I acted out on them, they were there and I sensed that my feelings were shameful and not like other boys. I liked books, music, collecting stamps and I LOVED (still do) the movies. I would go over to my neighbour Jennifer's house and secretly play with her dolls. I would get teased at school, partly because I was clever and partly because I wouldn't even pretend to be interested in the things that other boys liked.
I never developed a thick skin, although I did develop a thick waistline and my weight has gone up and down for most of my life. I grew up thinking I was unappealing physically and emotionally, even though there were periods in my twenties when I was pretty sexually active. I wish I had the resiliency that I see other people have, who let stuff roll off their backs. I'm much more comfortable (not happy) on my own because I'm afraid of the demands of the give-and-take of relationships. I have a few friends who are kind and I am grateful for them, so I try not to go on at length about how miserable and disgusted I feel. Who needs it?
I'm an introvert in a world where extroversion is far more prized, introspective in a world where superficiality more often equals popularity. I can't do anything without hearing that voice in my head, my mother's voice saying "No wonder you don't have any friends." I don't feel I'm entitled to my feelings and that I'm unimportant and that if I died tomorrow no one would notice until the smell wafted out the door and down the hallway. I'm self-loathing, self-pitying and self-dramatizing. I constantly make sure my apartment is tidy and that everything is boxed and labelled so that when I die it will be easy for whoever has to clear away the paltry evidence of my life.