I Don't Know Her
The art of creating yourself from scratch
“Glenna doesn’t know who she is.”
Ex-husband’s best friend, Jason, June 2011
I never forgot those words, not even when they were true. My ex-husband, Micah, looked strangely confused when he told me what his friend said about me. I guess it did sound weird. I mean, what kind of woman doesn’t know who she really is by the age of 40, the age I was when he said those words? Micah may not have understood, but I got it completely. What Jason had said was startlingly accurate.
I honestly didn’t know who I was, and I couldn’t remember a time when I ever did. I was anything anybody wanted me to be, starting with my parents who were basically neglectful unless I was entertaining them or being their sounding board. I’d been married twice, and in both marriages I was whoever my husband wanted me to be. In the former case, I was the quiet and docile housewife while in the latter I was an out-of-control, mentally ill drug addict who was being severely abused in some form on a daily basis.
I eventually ran away and divorced Micah, which is probably the smartest thing I ever did. Although his abuse and manipulation were over, I still had no sense of who I was. Whether I was with family or friends, I mentally scanned them to figure out who they wanted me to be, and then I became that person for better or worse.
Starting at the tender age of five, I became an instant “performer.” My mother and I lived in California, where dreams were made, and she was determined to make me a star.
She took me out on all kinds of auditions for movies and TV. In the end, the most “famous” things I did were a bank commercial and a Sunmaid Raisin ad that was in national magazines. I didn’t think it was a big deal, but my mom bragged about it to every stranger she met on the street.
I was so young, but already I knew what was expected of me: big smile, look and act my cutest and no whining ever. My mother’s dream was the first mask I ever put on, and I’ve been putting them on ever since. She wanted a performer, so that’s who I became, not just for her but for everyone I encountered until I was in my fifties.
Years later, in high school, I remember this girl who didn’t like me was having a party, and I was definitely not invited. A mutual friend suggested that I try to talk it out with her and make up. I agreed even though I didn’t have the slightest idea why the girl was mad in the first place.
When I asked her what the problem was, her eyes rolled back so far in her head it must have hurt her, and she let out a disgusted sigh.
“You’re so fake and phony,” she announced. “Everybody thinks you’re sooooo nice, but it’s all a lie.”
I shook my head slowly in response, my brain trying to remember where she could have gotten this idea. I recall that it hurt my feelings, but I didn’t understand why. If I really thought I was acting fake, I would have apologized. Before I could ask the question, the girl was halfway across her lawn and going into her house, leaving me standing stunned on the sidewalk.
I don’t remember the “fake” issue coming up again until I was in my thirties. I’d been drinking wine with a friend of mine, and she ended up getting hammered and needing me to drive her home. She felt really sick, and as I drove I tried to offer her words of comfort.
“YOU ARE SO FAKE!”
She yelled this at me out of nowhere from the passenger’s seat, cackling in my face, and then added, “You’re like one of those Stepford Wives, completely phony!”
At the time, I chalked it up to her being drunk, and I dropped her off without another word. Still, what she said really bugged me, especially since we had been so close before. She’d never said anything to me like that before, and I started to sincerely wonder if there was some truth to it since it wasn’t the first time I’d heard it before.
Today, I realize that I absolutely was masking myself with both of these ladies, being overly polite and sugary whenever I saw them, as a way to protect myself. My extreme cordiality was like a barrier that ensured I wouldn’t slip and tell them something personal they could use against me. In their cases, I was definitely right to protect myself because they both ended up trying to hurt me badly later on. Somehow I knew they would.
In my world, nobody could be trusted. This was probably the result of growing up with parents who both manipulated me to get what they wanted, narcissism in its most primitive form. As I became an adult and battled social anxiety, not only did I use my politeness to deter threats, but I “performed” for everybody I knew and loved.
I could fill an awkward silence with word garble like nobody’s business. I turned every subject back to me and my victim stories, glossing over everybody else’s. I was the funniest person all my friends knew, but it was based on my desperation to be liked. I thought giving away these pieces of my soul would ensure that people would never leave me.
Once I was in therapy for complex PTSD, I finally realized that my sense of self never developed because I was constantly in performance mode with every single person in my life, sometimes because they demanded it and sometimes because of my brutal fear of abandonment. I pictured an onion where the “real” me was trapped under all the different layers from my past. I wondered how long I’d have to peel it before I would feel free and experience happiness and joy instead of constant anxiety and despair.
I had been living in total survival mode. A loud noise could trigger me so badly that I’d cry. Somebody changing their tone with me activated my fear of abandonment and caused me to shake uncontrollably. The shaking problem wasn’t new. I’d been doing it since I was a nervous child, but back then nobody talked about anxiety or PTSD, so I was just left to shake on my own.
I began working hard to calm my nervous system, trying to tolerate all my “big” feelings for as long as I could stand them. I used breathing and complete silence to bring my panic down to a dull roar. I still had bad days where I couldn’t do anything, but they were decreasing as well. I kept reminding myself I was safe in the present whenever I flipped back to the past.
This work didn’t make my complex PTSD symptoms disappear a little more every day. It was more like one step forward, two steps back and then little breakthroughs that changed the way I thought about my diagnosis and how I wanted to move forward. Then I realized something that was a game changer.
There was no “old” me buried in the layers of the onion because I was never given the chance to develop my own personality. I was whoever anybody wanted me to be, but it erased any dreams or preferences that I might have had. Instead, I suddenly had the opportunity to build a “real” life in present time any way I wanted. I could decide things for myself, set boundaries that lasted and stop carrying around so much unnecessary guilt and shame. I could be whoever I aspired to be.
Honestly, none of this work would have happened if I hadn’t first learned to love the little person inside me who was so hurt and abused. I know it might sound cheesy to say “love yourself,” but I believe this is truly the key to all recovery. I intensely hated myself since I was old enough to ride a bicycle. It didn’t change overnight, but every little kindness I have shown to that little person reassures her that I wouldn’t leave her or neglect her. She’s able to just relax and feel completely safe, knowing I would protect her with my life.
Everybody’s healing journey (or any journey, for that matter) looks different, and the things that have helped me may be different that what other people have done, and that’s okay. I believe we’re here on earth to have experiences that God can see through our eyes and also here to help and love each other. That’s my motivation in sharing what has helped me, and I hope people know that it’s possible for anybody.
My life is no longer controlled by depressive episodes, self-hatred and mini-suicidal gestures all the time. I’ve grieved the things I lost, especially when it was my fault. I’ve tried to make things better where I can. The new foundation underneath me is getting stronger while my triggers get weaker. None of this is to brag but just to say please don’t ever give up hope. Things really can and do change for the better.
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I understand how you feel. You’re definitely not alone in not knowing who you are. It seems you are describing scripts that we are given as female children that we are expected to parrot. It’s just easier to control us that way.
It’s been a lifetime of unlearning the outside expectations and learning to love myself. My god if you could hear how I talk to myself you’d be appalled. I notice when I’m mean to myself which is only a first step. It’s difficult to understand what self-love is since there are so few examples around us.