Turned out that I wasn't so dumb after all. I learned how...all on my own.

I continued my search sporadically over the next several decades. It always seemed to me that there HAD to be a reason for my inferiority complex, my low self esteem. Maybe there was some deep horrible trauma that I had repressed. You hear about it all the time. The idea of uncovering such a thing wasn't really exhilarating, but hey. I just wanted to feel better about me, and if I had to go through some horrible crap to get to like myself, well then...bring it on.

I tried an out-patient therapist, and he did an I.Q. test on me, but not the full formal standardized assessment. Then he balked about telling me the numerical result. I swear he said that the math sub-section was the lowest, and that it was 120. But I don't believe that for a minute. Not that I think it's low, but I always laugh at people who claim to have high I.Q.s. It's like it's a horrible thing to have an I.Q. of 100. Maybe someday I'd like to know my number, but what if it was really LOW? Cripes.

My short stint as an inpatient gave me the Ink Blot Personality-Perception Tests (a.k.a. the "Rorschach"). I probably really blew at it. If I remember correctly, almost every blot looked like a face. Actually, most of them looked like nothing and I had to stretch to conjure up an image. Faces were easiest. That one up there looks to me like 2 cupids, holding wishbone above their heads and a heart between them. Perhaps they are making a wish. Gee, maybe your state of mind does have some influence on what you see. What did YOU see? Maybe you could post in in the comments section below.

I had a few medications, most of which made me sleep and wouldn't work, being a mom and all. I refused lithium. I hallucinated on Prozac. I became frigid on one of the other things they tried. THAT was NOT acceptable. I said no to Welbutrin as it could cause seizures, and knowing me as well as I do, it just didn't seem worth it.

No, it didn't seem like drugs were the answer, because underlying all of my depression was this nagging feeling that I wasn't good enough. Good enough for what? Ah. If I knew the answer to that, perhaps we could get somewhere.

Well, it finally came out in a session with the last therapist I had, several years ago. We were talking about my youth. About the family in which I was raised. The subject of birth order came up. My oldest sister Karen was first. And classic in the oldest sense of the word. Quiet, obedient, good, calm, studious. She was even over due.

I came second. Another classic case. Born early, partially in the elevator. Quick, loud, adventurous, mouthy, on-the-edge, questioning, rebellious. I hung with dad.

I mentioned that next there was my brother, and then went on to my baby sister who I babysat and pretended was mine (I was 12 when she was born). I spent a lot of time with her, and in many ways at the time, felt she was mine. It was the early 70's and I made her out to be a mini-hippie. A mini-me. A living doll.

I went on for a bit, and the therapist stopped me. Seems she wanted to know more about this brother of mine.

Hmmm. Well, let's see. He was about 2 years younger than me. Actually he is my earliest memory. I remember being in the car and watching my mom walk down a HUGE set of stairs carrying him. I was 26 months old.

Yes, that was interesting, she said, but she asked about our relationship.

Hmmm. Well, let's see. I can't say we really HAD much of a "relationship."

She looked surprised.

But, it wasn't a bad thing, I said. I mean, we just never had much of a relationship, from very early on to present. We were both very independent people, and occasionally we ran into each other and could sit and talk and laugh for hours. At family gatherings we also would entertain each other with memories. But we didn't really have what I would call a deep or close relationship.

She asked how I felt when he was born. Instead of saying that I was too young to remember, the word came out.

"Decapitated."

Now that's a pretty damned hefty word. And when I said it, I began to cry. Then with not much coaching from the therapist, the pieces kind of fell into place. Karen was my mom's. I was my dad's. But then he was born. And dad got his SON. And I lost dad. Not really, but it felt like I did. Oh, he was a VERY involved parent, much more so that any other father I knew. But from that day forward, I don't recall having any alone time with my dad. He did things with all of us, or my brother alone. But not me. Selective memory? Perhaps.

All these years. I thought I wasn't good enough. I tried to be what dad wanted. I ate like him, I played like him, I even drank my coffee like him. And it never was good enough to be where I was before with him. Little did I know that I could never compete with my brother, because I didn't have a penis.

I have to tell you, I felt a little silly. No. I felt DAMNED silly. And kind of ripped off. Not that I really wanted a tragedy in my life, but seriously. People out there are dealing with rape, parental molestation, physical abuse, abandonment, drug addiction, alcoholism. I had a baby brother. I didn't have a penis!!! How freaking lame is that?

DAMN my parents! I mean, couldn't they have given me a decent psychosis? They didn't even have the consideration to fight, let alone divorce!!!!

TODAY'S QUOTE

"Depression is merely anger without enthusiasm."

*Author Unknown*

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The Digital Bastard's Claim as of date 5/30/02:

Beginning Weight: 204.5

Goal #1: 184 (Met 5/19/02)

Goal #2: 164.5

Total lost: 23.0

Pounds to go for goal #2: 17.0

Pounds to go to my final target....58.0

I hope to meet my final target by May 1, 2003

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