Not Good Enough

Poster Campaign for Domestic Abuse Awareness- Scotland

Last night I didn't sleep. I have no explanation why I didn't; at three am I took two sleeping pills, at four am I got up for the third time and fetched a large glass of sherry and a packet of sickly sweet hazelnut cream biscuits upstairs, then sat on the edge of my bed and alternately took a drink of sherry, ate a biscuit, took another drink, and another biscuit, and on and on,  until the drink was finished and the packet of biscuits half empty and I felt sick and sickened at the same time. I had already read a soporific self-help text, checked my emails - at three in the morning, for heaven's sake - and scratched the itchy insect bites on my legs. Nothing helped.

I've had a very good week, loaded up on sunshine, saw lots of friendly faces and nourished my soul. I had also had some fantastic comments on several recent posts which did my delicate and slightly bruised ego a lot of good, convincing me that I should continue blogging. I even had emails from people I didn't  know existed, who neither follow nor comment, but still felt called upon to tell me how much they enjoyed reading my blog.

Yesterday afternoon, walking past her house with Benno,  I met a neighbour  pruning some dead growth in her front garden. She and her husband read blogs all the time as part of their professional duties, I think. The couple read my blog and have always been very complimentary about it; I can trust them not to gossip about it in Valley's End, and I don't feel obliged to change my veiled comments on village life for their sake.

I stopped to chat, and Sally once again praised my blog, she smiled sweetly and sincerely and mentioned several entries and what she thought of them. You'd think I would be pleased.  Unfortunately, I feel inclined to trust her judgment and that is where the problem comes in.

You see, she couldn't be right, and neither could the other people who have said that they enjoy my blog; in fact, nobody who has a good word to say about anything I do can possibly be right. They simply don't know what they are talking about.

This is where it gets hard, very hard indeed, to continue writing this.  I am convinced, and always have been, because I was told by people who knew about these things, that I was Never Good Enough. Nothing I did deserved appreciation and certainly never praise. There was always somebody who would have done so much better than me, who wouldn't have been the same kind of fool, the same imbecile, incompetent, ridiculous child, who was not only a complete idiot but also disobedient, ungrateful and disloyal. That person was my still-born sister, a fantasy being.

So, you see, this is where logic comes into it: if I accept the compliments some people misguidedly insist on paying my efforts, in blogland and elsewhere, if I accept that these compliments are sincere, then it follows that much of what I was told as a child, much of what I have come to believe, my core belief, in other words, is wrong. Lauren (my counsellor) and I go over this ground time and time again. It's a circular argument.

If I am Good Enough, then 'They', whom I owe obedience, gratitude and loyalty, were wrong. I would have to accept that, knowingly or unknowingly, 'They' were acting abusively, that I was psychologically abused. If I were to accept that 'They' got it wrong, it would automatically prove 'Them' right, that I am indeed disobedient, ungrateful and disloyal. Q.E.D.

Which means that I punish myself by sitting on the edge of my bed at four am, eating a packet of biscuits, which is bad for me, and gives me no pleasure at all.

The wheel goes on turning.



P.S.  Don't take too much notice of this, I am sure I shall feel better tomorrow, after a good night's sleep.