Sunday Scribblings-Two Cents

From Smartgivers.org

First of all, it’s never just two cents. You know that, I know that. If I could assign a more accurate dollar amount to all of the opinions, criticisms, hints, and “no offense, but...”s that I hear masquerading as someone’s two cents, I’d be able to afford that dream of all tired mommies, a qualified nanny.

I come from a long line of critical people—people relentlessly dedicated to improving the universe, one pointed opinion at a time. No one gets more of their loving tractor beam than the family. And, like other things that roll downhill or float downstream, most of it ends up on me, the baby of the family.

To be fair (which is more than they usually are, but I digress...), there is a certain air of vulnerability around me. A close friend once referred to me as a “wounded gazelle”—I suppose because I always seem to be acutely aware of how difficult things can be, and sometimes I just don’t feel up to the task. This has always irritated my family to no end...why should things be so hard for me? I think I developed a bit of an inferiority complex to compensate for the rest of my family’s swaggering assurance. They assumed that things would always work out by sheer force of their personalities. They were perfectly happy to bully the world into falling under their dominion, if necessary.

I never quite had their confidence. I saw the potential pitfalls, the dark edges, the instability, the uncertainty. Maybe I had to do so, to prepare them for those moments when I wouldn’t succeed the way they all assumed I would.

So this worries them, and leads them to conclude that if only they could GUIDE me towards a better way of thinking, I would grow into my destiny as a highly successful person.

But I need to be honest...I have always gravitated towards books, experts, theorists, people who would give my ideas heft, and whose thoughts were more valuable than mine. I married TEG, in part, because his strength of mind borders on arrogance...and I like that. So it makes sense that my family, the people who know me best (ostensibly) would be first in the long line of people I have allowed to have say-so over my life. Basically, anyone could step right up and be the boss of me. Everyone, of course, except me.

Hence, the two cents.

These innocuous little comments pepper every single conversation I have with my parents.

If only I would move to their city, get a job, go to graduate school, lose 15 pounds, let Madam cry, follow that new parenting technique they saw on Univision, be more confident, stop looking on the dark side, grow my hair, realize I can do anything I set my mind to, get firm with Madam, get firm with my inlaws, get firm with everyone but them...

Or they leisurely remind me of all of the opportunities that have faded away...

Mami: You went to such a good school...so expensive! You could have done anything after that...oh well...I guess you don’t need so much education to stay home with Madam, right? You were so young then...you waited too long to have a baby...so much time gone! And you didn’t even get a graduate degree!

When their voices are (temporarily) silent, then the internal two cents start. And so often, that voice is repeating exactly what my family tells me, guiding their words deep into the soft underbelly of my secret fears. But the voice has an advantage they don’t...it can prey upon my weaknesses with precision.

And so the two copper Lincolns work as little scalpels, scraping away my already-fragile self-confidence.

And all too often, the two cents are coming from me. Second guessing my instincts to the point where I can’t feel them anymore. Re-interpreting my decisions in the worst possible way. Waiting to fail so I can gloat at myself.

Ultimately, it’s two things, over and over again. You can’t take care of yourself. And now you have to take care of a helpless little person...someone you can’t fail. Someone you can’t change your mind about. Everything is life or death.

But...what if it isn’t? What if all of this doubt is just “hate hating through me”, like I read in a book recently? What if taking care of myself is a process I need to learn all the time, not something that can be trapped like a butterfly into one moment in my history?

I’ve already begun talking back to my family...trying to show them that honest ambivalence is not always a weakness, that admitting difficulty does not automatically assume failure.

Having a blog, though, has shown me that not all comments have to be negative ones. I look forward to all of your opinions and two cents...but maybe that's the sunny side of the same penny? The truth is...I want someone to tell me that I am on the right path...I want someone to tell me what to do, so that I don't have to risk failing at something I really want. I look forward to your good opinion so that I can talk back to that Voice inside my own head, with proof this time.

But I need to supply my own proof, don't I? I need to appreciate comments and advice and applause and yes, even criticism, without losing sight of my own beliefs, without being deaf to my own voice.

I need to stop giving my authority away to anyone with an opinion and a couple of coins to rub together.

It’s finally time to talk back to that Voice inside my head, and tell her that she needs to pay me a lot more than two cents for each of her so-called “insights” into all of my mistakes.

I should be able to afford therapy in no time. Or a nanny.

Or earplugs.

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For more two cents, go here.