I wish I could say I have an iron backbone. I wish I could write about having indestructible self-esteem—a confidence that allows me to pitch articles to any and all editors on the planet without fearing rejection. I wish I could say that, at 37, I’m not unspeakably terrified to talk to whatever dude I’ve got a crush on or to go on a first date without guzzling vodka. I wish I could say that I don’t care what others think of me. But it would all be a lie. Because I do. I care far more than anyone ever should.
Having any kind of permanent and unwavering confidence has proven pretty much unattainable for me, despite all of my earnest efforts over the years to build it. No matter how many compliments I may receive on my appearance, my personality, writing ability or intelligence, I still doubt myself. At least, I doubt myself 50 percent of the time. Some days are better than others. On the bad days things are worse, especially after I whine about my self-doubt to others.
Well-meaning friends and family—especially mom and dad—try to help the situation by simply saying “Well, that’s silly; there’s no reason for you to feel inferior to anyone else. Be confident.” (My parents and all of my past boyfriends use this punitive tone when they tell me I’m wonderful and should feel great about myself, which results in my self-esteem dropping a few more degrees.)
The “be confident” imperative confounds me—as if I could just be confident. If it was that easy, like I could somehow snap my fingers and raid some untapped well of self-esteem, I would have already done so. It’s obviously not so simple. I’m not a moron. I know I should be confident. That’s not my problem. It’s that I can’t do it, or at least I think I can’t.
“Don’t doubt yourself,” mom will say. But when 10 pitches from cool publications just got ignored and all the lit magazines I send my fiction to reject me, isn’t self-doubt a logical response?
“Just call him,” a friend will say. “What’s the worst that can happen?” Well, he could ignore my call or grumble when he hears it’s me on the other end of the line—something I experienced throughout adolescence since I pretty much repulsed most boys.
“Who cares what people think? Who cares if they reject you? Just keep trying!” a boyfriend or two will say, exhausted from trying to build me up yet again.
Every rejection, be it from a dude or an editor or agent or a friend, has left a very palpable and visible scar in my memory, one I can run my fingers over and feel to this day. And I won’t just run my fingers over it—I’ll start scratching it, trying to get it to bleed again. It gives me a sick satisfaction, a pleasurable (and probably self-pitying) pain. This scar keeps me from writing, keeps me from leaving my house when there’s a party and it can keep me mired in inaction.
Some of you might be thinking, “Talk about a pity party,” but rest assured I have tried to buck up and tackle this problem. My frustration stems from the reality that despite journaling for hours on the subject, “working the steps” on the problem back when I was in AA, taking psych meds, going to therapy, saying positive affirmations and even exercising regularly, there doesn’t seem to be a way to dig into my psyche and heal whatever trauma happened in this life or the last so I can grow an unshakable measure of self-esteem.
Since I don’t always feel horribly insecure and awkward and full of self-doubt, I’m starting to wonder if, as a society, we’re overdoing it on championing high self-esteem. We put such a high price tag on valuing ourselves that if we doubt ourselves at all it’s easy to get caught up in the cycle of even more self-doubt. The imploring of my friends and family to be confident often just compounds my problem—if I’m insecure, for whatever fucking reason, why not just own it?
What if I just own that I sometimes think I’m a big piece of dog shit? That right now, for whatever reason, I’m terrified of what you think of me. What if I own that I think what the editor thinks of me is more important than what I think of myself? What if I own that what the dude thinks of me is more important than what I think of myself? Is it pathetic? Maybe. Should I let awareness of this ruin my life, or at least my day? Fuck no.
So maybe my lack of self esteem is not that serious of a problem. After all, I’m a privileged chick living in the USA. I could have far bigger problems.
There’s some serious liberation that comes with just embracing my pathetic-ness and allowing myself to just be totally insecure. If I can for just one second rip off all of this positive self-affirming bullshit that everyone’s forcing on me and bask in my self-doubt and sometimes deplorable self-esteem, I’ll probably feel less guilty and, in a roundabout way, more confident in the end.
Still, I have goals for myself. I have things I want to accomplish, books I want to write and guys I want to meet. So I know I do have to cultivate more confidence one way or another. I’ve concluded that the first step is to not give a shit what people think, so I tried this on a date recently. If I can just accept that sometimes I’ll be awkward and look ridiculous when I can’t think of what to say, if I accept that I may hide in the corner at a party due to fear, if I can stop judging that, then I might be able to appreciate those moments where I meet people or work for editors who appreciate me for who I am, and that’s that.
This is certainly better than putting on a mask or putting out a bunch of bullshit bravado or losing five pounds or putting on some saucy high heels (or whatever that glossy magazine tells you to do to boost your confidence a few notches). No, a new haircut or a new degree won’t do it—believe me, I’ve tried that. Botox won’t do it. A bunch of shit pumped into my lips won’t do it. Telling myself I’m good enough and smart enough and that people like me in front of the mirror also won’t do it.
So what’s my plan? I’m going to choose to be full of self-doubt and trepidation from here on out. Because, why not? And anyone who’s got a problem with it can fuck off. If I don’t have a problem with it, that’s all that matters.
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