As a child, I remember always looking outside of myself at the other kids and feeling like I was fatally flawed. I’d watch the most popular boys, which were usually the loudest, as they teased each other and made jokes in their exclusive brotherhood. I desperately longed for admission into that world. But instead, I cowered into myself, feeling invisible. I always placed myself in a lower category, while desperately fantasizing about being more like them. I’d give these boys power over me, allowing them to occupy and dominate my inner space. My mind would swarm with insecurities, and I felt like an outsider, needy of their validation.
I wish I had known then, what I know now. If I did, I would not have given them a second of my energy. At the time I was traumatized, with a fractured sense of belonging that came from my history of having been adopted; having endured severe neglect and sexual abuse and continuing to endure sexual abuse in my adopted family. I would have given everything just to feel that I was worthy. Worthy of love. Worthy of existing. Worthy of being seen. I was ten back then, but after thirty-five years, I have learned a few things that change the way I show up in the world.
To start, I don’t need anyone else’s approval to be ok. And being loud, or a bully, doesn’t make you “cool,” or “powerful.” I think it shows wounding and an effort to compensate. Back then, what I needed most was to discover my own voice and to love every part of me that was discovering how to express its uniqueness.
Most of all, I wish I had known that none of these boys were superior to me. That the teasing and whispers, had very little to do with me at all. They were signs of their deep-seated insecurity. Back then to be seen and included as one of the boys, you had to learn how to be aggressive, demeaning, or funny. But I was sensitive, empathetic and playful. These qualities got you teased ruthlessly. I wanted both, to express my physical power and energy and make people feel good.
I had no positive examples of masculinity. I imagine these boys didn’t either. I never knew my birth father and my adopted father was a bully. His words were often cutting and his energy could be aggressive. We always cowered when he got into one of his rampages. My adopted mom lived in his shadow and shrunk under his controlling nature. So, I have had to become the example I hoped for. The journey to get here has been messy and I have done it imperfectly. But I’m learning to trust myself, and to find a strength that comes from a place beyond power over and control.
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