Chapter One
Where the Lie Came From
and Why We Bought It
To be a human being means to possess a feeling of inferiority which
constantly presses towards its own conquest. The greater the feeling of inferiority that has been experienced, the more powerful is the urge for conquest and the more violent the emotional agitation.
—Alfred Adler
The long curls dangled as Mom removed the sponge rollers and clipped a pink barrette to one side. Then, with a quick pat on the butt, I was off to school for picture day.
At the sound of the bell, we ran to line up behind Mrs. Davis. I wish she could have heard what Gail Reece said. I was standing right behind her—the tallest girl in first grade, and second and third and fourth—when she said my dress was ugly. Too shy to say anything and too scared to cry, I cupped my disquieted insides until I got home. The school bus had scarcely stopped when I let the tears go and ran to Mom. She told me not to worry about it. She said it was a pretty pink dress, and that maybe Gail was just jealous of me. I realize now that Mom was saying not to personalize Gail's comments—great advice. It didn't break through my existing beliefs, though. Mom had already spent six years teaching me to worry about what other people thought. I was compelled—whether I realized it or not—to worry about what Gail and everybody else thought of me and my dress! So, I put on a strong little face and tried to be prettier, smarter, and 'nicer.' People—taller and 'meaner' people—were watching. God was watching.
I know Mom wanted me to feel good about myself but, like most parents, she sent mixed messages. And I latched on to the negative. Her words haunted me. 'What will people think?' 'Please, act like you have some manners.' 'Our house is every bit as nice as theirs.' It seemed as though she was trying to help me hide something or convince me of something that might not be apparent—maybe because it wasn't true. I had no inkling then that we had evolved over 150,000 years and that natural selection favored those with strong social connections! They were more apt to survive, reproduce, and raise their children to do likewise (Kurzban and Leary 2001). My mother was just trying to protect me and, on some level, herself.
I felt both my mom's regret and her hope. I was perceptive enough to realize that she wanted more for me and for herself, and I didn't want to let her down. I would keep our secrets safe. I would not talk about my dad's drinking, or her yelling and throwing him and his clothes out on some of those dark nights. I would sit still and stay clean. I would try to act normal, like nothing was wrong with us, but I would believe there was. And I resolved to do something to overcome the black marks.
Some children get the message that they can't—that there is no way for them to overcome the black marks. If they learn that being good enough means living with both parents, or growing up on the other side of town, or being a different color, then the best they can hope for is to build a good facade. They might build what turns out to be an elaborate system of defense mechanisms to protect themselves and keep others at arm's length from the truth. Then, they might spend their lives in fear of being found out. If this is all too familiar, maybe it's because you've done the same thing while working—year after year—on something to overcome your own black marks. What I decided was normal or good enough was an ideal that existed only in fairy tales. I would be painfully private and strong (to appear as normal as possible) as I struggled toward perfection—the kind you only get when you walk off into the sunset at 'The End.' And that's not a real option, for any of us, even for the most 'blessed' or 'gifted.' Take Dante, for example.
With an IQ of 170, a passion for philosophy, and a wit that can impale adults more than three times his twelve years of age, Dante struggles with self-esteem. And his parents worry that he could suffer from depression, because of a fixation with being perfect. He attends a highly selective private school with many gifted children, yet its teachers still find Dante intimidating—quick to pick holes in any illogical argument or lack of knowledge. The eminent child psychologist who assessed him explained that he had a complex and intriguing personality and a fantastic wit, but 'somehow had the feeling of not being quite good enough.'
We all have a story, a different story, with the same message, the same fear that something is wrong with us.
'Often, just telling people that others feel neutrally about them will be perceived as rejection. That's one thing that's been amazing to me—very small doses of rejection elicit strong emotional reactions. It shows how powerful this motive [to be socially accepted] is,' says Mark Leary, a professor of psychology and neuroscience at Duke University, whose research focuses on how people's behavior and emotions are affected by their concerns about others' impressions, evaluations, and acceptance of them.
The Message That We Are Not Good Enough—From the Voice of Authority
From the time we understand the word 'no,' we begin to feed the notion that something is wrong with us that needs to be corrected. We start to venture off, and somebody says, 'No.' We reach for something that catches our eye, and somebody says—or even screams—no. We don't immediately cave. We think when somebody says 'no,' we can do it anyway, maybe just as soon as they turn their head again! Most of us try—until we learn the voice of authority, the authority being the one who can slap our hand, or withhold cookies, or approval, or love.
'The average child hears 432 negative statements per day to only 32 positive statements,' says Jack Canfield, a self-esteem expert.
When our behavior, which we are unable to distinguish from ourselves, is rejected, we feel rejected. We do not understand what is wrong with us, only that something is. Even when we eventually understand that Daddy is trying to protect us, the message is one of fear. There is something to be afraid of; and we are not up to the task of managing it on our own. If we venture off, we risk destruction and rejection. The alternative is to succumb to fear.
We have all seen children stifled by fear, trying desperately to hold back the tears, because even the tears are rejected. We have also seen children who seem carefree and happy, children who are delighted by both caterpillars and butterflies. There is nothing as pure as a child who is still innocent of prejudice. Nonetheless, we are compelled to protect and socialize children, and in doing so, we inevitably taint them in some way. Please stay with me—I can hear the objections. Yes, many children grow up in 'loving' homes. I did.
'Even if you were fortunate enough to grow up in a safe, nurturing environment, you still bear invisible scars from childhood, because from the very moment you were born you were a complex, dependent creature with a never-ending cycle of needs. Freud correctly labeled us 'insatiable beings.' And no parents, no matter how devoted, are able to respond perfectly to all of these changing needs,' says Harville Hendrix in his bestselling Getting the Love You Want. Hendrix goes on to share how he and his wife, despite their best intentions, didn't meet all of their daughter's needs because they were too tired or distracted or unwittingly passed on their own childhood wounds. Even if we were to succeed in being more loving parents than Hendrix and his wife (one of the most knowledgeable and loving couples I can imagine), there is still, as they point out, the strange dog or slip in the pool that leads to fear.
We can't keep children from getting scared anymore than we can keep them from falling. We can be there for them. We can teach them not to personalize rejection and not to worry about what other people think. And, we can give them a path back to paradise, to peace on the other side of the inevitable bruised butt and heart.
'I would not give a fig for the simplicity this side of complexity, but I would give my life for the simplicity on the other side of complexity,' said Oliver Wendell Holmes. And that is what we are destined to find, a paradise worthy of the bruises, a paradise made possible by the bruises.
A dear man who attended one of my workshops shared his first memory of his mother: when he looked up and saw his mother standing in the doorway, he was sitting on the kitchen floor amid the scattered pots and pans that he had pulled from the cabinets. She shook her head and smiled, making a sweet sound as she pursed her lips together. Then she sat on the floor with him. Together, they put the pots and pans away. Too young to remember any words, he remembers his mother's acceptance, and he conveyed it with the bright-eyed enthusiasm of a toddler and the peaceful knowing of a sixty-year-old man!
Many of us—even from loving parents—learn not to make a mess. We learn not to fidget or talk too much. We learn not to interrupt adults or bother them with things that are 'unimportant.' We learn not to talk back and not to hit back. We learn not to be stingy and not to hold a grudge. We learn to love God and others but not really . . . unless we also learn to love ourselves. We can't truly love anybody else until we do. The often misused commandment says, 'Love your neighbor as you love yourself.'
As long as we feel unlovable, we don't want to believe that others are lovable. We are motivated to find fault with them rather than accept them as they are and love them unconditionally (which is the only way to truly love somebody). We are afraid that they won't reciprocate. And if we withhold no part of ourselves and love them, the decidedly lovable, with no qualifiers, and they still don't love us, then what? That would confirm the lie, our worst fear, that we are unlovable.
Even parents can find themselves hurting when their children don't appreciate or reciprocate love. Parents don't just worry about what their children think, though. As long as their insecurity rules, they also worry about what others think—of both them and their children. And what most impresses others is not necessarily what is most loving. Conflicted intentions—to love and to gain approval—work against each other and render us ineffective at any age. We cannot fully love somebody, anybody, while feeling torn. Love is wholehearted. So parents often give children a false concept of what love is, while passing on their insecurity as part of it.
Many of us learn that we are unworthy—even of this false concept of love. No problem . . . Mommy and Daddy love us, even if we are bad! And what about everybody else? To move beyond our badness to be good enough, we must obey the rules, meet the standards, present ourselves as pretty or handsome, earn good grades, perform well in games or sports. The belief that we must do something to measure up leaves us striving. However, we cannot feel good if our goodness is based on meeting certain criteria, just as we cannot feel loved if being loved is based on meeting certain criteria. As children, we are not yet able to reason this out. Besides, our parents are the authorities. They are the trusted ones. Our well-being hangs on their knowing what they're doing. We're not ready to question their competence (a word we've yet to learn).
When baby elephants are born in the circus, the trainers use heavy chains to get the desired response. In time, they use a lighter chain and, eventually, an even lighter rope. The elephants grow bigger and more powerful, but they continue to respond to the rope as they did to the heavy chain. Although they could almost effortlessly break free, they believe the rope is strong enough to control them.
Most of us learn to heed 'no,' particularly when it comes from the voice of authority—a caretaker (usually a parent), a teacher, or the adult in charge. We learn that, 'No means no.' And we can turn each 'no' into a belief, a chain, that disempowers us—and we continue to respond to those chains long after we are mature enough to free ourselves. We lose awareness of our true nature and believe that our goodness is contingent on meeting the criteria set out by the authority. We hear things like, 'Be good now, stay right here, and be quiet.' We get the message that what we would do instinctively is unacceptable. We learn, often from the people we depend upon for survival, not to trust ourselves! We feel guilty not just for running or playing, but for wanting to. We feel guilty for being who we naturally are . . . and we begin to screen what we show of ourselves. And, to the degree that we repress parts of ourselves, we lose our awareness of them. So, we cannot feel whole (read: good).
Pam's story, as shared with me during a one-on-one consultation, might remind you of one of your own. Pam began wearing eyeglasses as a very young child, maybe when she was three. And because her mother was wary of her losing the glasses, she almost constantly warned Pam of what would happen if she did. 'Stay here and hold on to your glasses,' she would tell her little girl, 'because if you wander off and lose them, you won't be able to find your way back to me again.' This instilled such a fear in Pam that she was terrified of taking the glasses off. She relied on them and her mother more than she needed to. She was in her thirties when she met with me and finally realized that she had been afraid all those years 'to take the glasses off' or stray from her mother. And as long as she stayed close and looked through the 'glasses,' she saw things through her mother's eyes of fear. She had been afraid of losing both the glasses and her mother, and as a result, she had lost her own eyes, her own view, her own judgment. Once she realized what had happened, she saw things through new eyes. She also realized that they were 'good' eyes.
All of our parts are good, but many of us got the message that some of them—particularly our genitals—are taboo. In the movie The Good Mother, a little girl is removed from her very loving home after being allowed to touch a penis. And despite the sexual education now available for children—which the 'good mother' used—some parents still teach their children that it is inappropriate to touch a penis, even if that penis is just as much a part of their own body as their arm or their ear (and a more curious part, at that). What if those of us who grew up without the books had been taught that it was okay to touch a penis or those female parts that even now I can't think of comfortable names for? What if we had grown up knowing it was okay to talk about our genitals? Wouldn't we have healthier bodies with more awareness of them? Wouldn't we have healthier psyches without the repressed sexual feelings, without the shame and the guilt? Wouldn't we be more sexually discerning and satisfied?
And our repressed feelings and shame, as we've seen, are not restricted to our sexuality. We may learn to keep our tears to ourselves—until we grow up and marry somebody, somebody who screams out desperately to know what we are feeling. We may learn to keep our anger in—until we literally explode. Ideally, children are taught to recognize their emotions and understand and appreciate them, to learn from them. Our emotions always have something important to teach us. The idea is not to repress the fear—or the emotions that stem from it—but to confront it. Only then can we realize that we don't have anything to be afraid of. But adults can't teach children what they haven't learned. Hence, we grow up judging ourselves based on what often unhealthy authority figures tell us is appropriate to do, and feel, and think, and be, and when we judge ourselves, we also feel judged by others.
Some of the messages come in a certain look or a 'shhh.' My mother used to make a gesture with her two index fingers that meant 'shame on you.' We don't need words to feel shamed or stifled. Sometimes we get the message that there is something to be kept undercover, without ever understanding exactly what. It is, after all, to be kept quiet. And we shy away from asking, 'Exactly what is wrong with me?' Other messages come through the absence of attention. What does it tell a child when Grandpa is always too busy to answer his questions, or Grandma has time for baby brother but not for her? The new bike seems like a consolation prize when there is nobody there to watch him ride it. Unworthiness can be passed on by anybody in a position of authority—without words or even awareness.
Children are optimistic, though. They find hope, even when there is none. They latch on to whatever contingency they can find to make themselves good enough. It may be holding on to their glasses or retreating quietly to their room to read. It may be making a fist and bullying other children. It may be staying clean and 'pretty.'
©2008. Jan Denise Ferguson. All rights reserved. Reprinted from Innately Good. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the written permission of the publisher. Publisher: Health Communications, Inc., 3201 SW 15th Street, Deerfield Beach, FL 33442 |
