Fat ass.
I almost always refer to myself this way. I never say “They can kiss my ass.” I say, “They can kiss my fat ass,” or, my personal favourite, “They can kiss the fattest part of my ass.”
You’re not worth it.
This is a huge recurring theme in my life. I have stopped and started the process towards gastric bypass surgery so many times I’ve lost count. Without fail, every time I’ve stopped, it’s because I don’t feel like I’m really worth all the effort it requires to have it done. Not only that, but I don’t think it would make one bit of difference about how I feel about myself. I hear all the time people saying that they lost X number of pounds and even though their body is healthier, they’re just as emotionally miserable as they were before they lost the weight.
You don’t deserve it.
I don’t like asking people to do things for me – even little things like watching Emily so that I can take something for my splitting headache and lie down – because I don’t think I deserve such a luxury. I buy myself things like new shirts, not because I need them or think I “deserve something special” or even want them.. but because I delude myself into thinking that a pretty shirt will make me feel pretty. They say the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. It never works. I never feel better or prettier or happier.. in fact, I usually feel like crap because I just wasted that money.
I told Royce about the needing-to-set-boundaries thing, and he reacted just like I thought he would. He threw a big guilt trip on me by telling me how hurtful it was to everyone, and seemed convinced that I did it because I was uncomfortable on the couch while he was here. It’s like he didn’t even read my letter. And I just gave in. Gave up. Told him to forget I’d even said anything. Because I don’t think I deserve anything more than what I have now. One minute, I feel sorry for myself because I want more, and the next, I’m angry with myself because wanting more surely indicates that I’m not grateful enough for what I do have.
They don’t really love you. They tolerate you.
There’s only been one person in my life that I believed wholly when he said he loved me. I never understood why, but I believed him. And in the end, he left, too. I think everyone else just puts up with me. I convince myself that my friends don’t really care one way or the other, and just allow me to be around because it’s easier than hurting my feelings by telling me to go away. I have to earn their love/friendship. I have to do things for them, give them things, help them somehow, so that I can feel okay about them putting up with me. I tell myself that my mother loves me because I gave birth to Emily – her grandbaby, the light of her life. She kind of has to love me for that. I can find a way for almost anything my friends say to me to be somehow negative. I read in to every little thing, looking for – and usually finding – some way for it to validate all these thoughts in my head.
You’re not good enough. You never will be.
I’m taking out thousands of dollars in student loans that I’m terrified I’ll never be able to repay because no educator in their right mind will ever hire me. I would be a total hypocrite to walk in to a preschool at my size and try to teach children things like proper nutrition. I am in my 30s, I have no career, I have no real skills to speak of, and I’m not convinced that having a degree will change that. The only reason I haven’t dropped out of school already is because I don’t have any way of repaying the loans I’ve taken out thus far. And I can pretend I’m a good employee, but I think my boss is frustrated with me more often than not. Truly, I think he keeps me around because he doesn’t have the time to find someone else. Someone qualified, talented, useful.
I could go on forever with all the negative self-talk. That’s almost redundant, because there’s no such thing as positive self-talk inside my head. Or outside it, for that matter.
I feel completely hopeless, very “what’s the point?” I live my life for everyone else, everything else. I get up in the morning because Emily has to go to school. I do my homework because doing so puts off repaying my loans for another day. I cook dinner because everyone else in the house has to eat. I clean up because it’s what I’m supposed to do. I shower because I don’t want people to have to smell me. I put a smile on my face and play with my child because she does deserve it.
(*It’s funny, because if anyone else said any of these things to me, I’d get all indignant and fuck-you on them.)