I was left clasping a bag of groceries, holding the garage door open while he stormed past me and walked straight into the house. He was ignoring me. “Damn, what did I do this time?” I asked myself.
This is a story of how I finally figured out what the difference is between self-acceptance and narcissism. It is not a feel-good story, because as long as I can remember, I never liked failing in anything, especially in terms of close family relationships, especially with my husband and kids. Better to have an awful day at work than have quarrels at home any day of the year, I say. My current experience left a burn I’m still healing from, but I need to recount it. It matters because if you are trying to get things right like me when it comes to the people you cherish the most, telling the story can lead to healing. Are you also trying to fix yourself like me?
When my family members were down perusing (of course, they didn’t buy anything, with that face of mine!), I promptly declared I was tired, and we should be heading home soon. We all walked to the car, and that was when I was met with icy silence from my spouse. We have been married for almost two decades, and I know when I have offended him. These are one of those times. I know well also that he would not be able to talk about it until hours later, so I just shut up in the car, making minimal comments, writing in my journal in the dark, and panicking. Asking myself, “What did I do this time?”
It was a typical Saturday. My husband, my teenage kids, and I decided to spend the afternoon at a faraway mall, a place we rarely visit due to the hour-long drive. This particular mall housed a large Lego store that my husband needed to pick up something from. Coincidentally, the mall’s grocery the mall’s grocery had excellent offerings, and I wanted to explore it.
After completing our errands, my family entered a posh clothing store. Reluctantly, followed suit, frowning. As a child of lower-middle-class Chinoy upbringing, the habit of avoiding purchases from such places unless absolutely necessary was hammered into me. It’s more frugal and practical to buy from the Ukay (second-hand clothing stores), where bargains and choices are plentiful. With these thoughts in mind, I slumped into a seat inside the store, my displeasure for all to see.
As my family perused the clothing items (of course, not making any purchases, given my disapproving expression!), I promptly announced my fatigue and suggested we head home soon. When we made our way to the car, I was met with icy silence from my spouse. Having been married for almost two decades, I could sense when I had offended him, and this was one of those times. Knowing that he wouldn’t be ready to talk about it for hours, I remained silent on the drive home, making minimal comments, jotting down my thoughts in my journal in the darkness, and feeling a sense of panic creeping in. I never intended for this emotional maelstrom to happen.
In my thirties, as my husband and I were still establishing our family, whenever he gives me the silent treatment I automatically think, “What did I do to deserve this?” I feel slighted and wronged. But years of being married to him have taught me that he’s generally more emotionally mature than I am. He’s also very patient, and it takes a lot make him angry. This has led me to conclude that if he’s upset, that rage is justified.
And, unlike the narcissistic borderline personality father that I grew up with, my spouse would not inflict harm on me on purpose. He wouldn’t leave me holding a grocery bag, with the garage door open, and storm inside the house as if I were a piece of furniture. He was not power-tripping, I must’ve crossed a line.
That night, I listened to him explain why. And he was right, I took excessive charge of the trip, so it ended abruptly with no room for spontaneity. I admit that my vicious control issues meant I like having the last say all the time. In that moment more than any other, I felt the need to change. Else, what will happen? My family will not look forward to outings with me. Before I scathe myself with admonition, I flashback to family trips with my dad. He was so controlling he bulldozed all the decisions. Every time we went to a mall, he chose the restaurants, the food to be ordered, he the activities to do, and when we’d leave. As his child, I felt that he was so autocratic, and I vowed never to be like him.
So why the hell am I acting this way? This promise I made to myself still rings true to this day, I don’t intend to back out from it. But words are cheap. I need to follow through.
My admission of failure would not have been possible had I not developed some self-compassion. I mean, come on, I had a bad role model. So, okay yeah, partly because of that I’ve got imperfections. But I’m not a bad mother, not a bad wife, just a normal one.
The morning after, when my spouse was calmer, we began to talk about what happened in a detailed manner. I cautiously probed, asking him for suggestions on what to do, moving forward. We came up with a solution I could understand: I need to state my needs plainly, ask what others what their needs are, and then meet them half-way. Very basic indeed, but it starts with “Say what you need, Melany.”
Now that’s where I run into an obstacle.
I am ashamed of my needs, sometimes even my mere existence seems incorrect.
Maybe you’re like me, you too have a problem articulating your needs. Saying them out loud feels wrong, feels so selfish. So what do we do? We overcompensate and yell when we couldn’t hold back anymore—it all spills out all over the place, we blurt out the wrong words at the wrong time, terrifying everybody. Even ourselves.
I promised never to be like my dad, I promised never to be like my dad. I keep my promises.
The unspoken conviction—that I don’t have the right to exist and have needs—is the taproot of my anorexia. I’m no way near getting rid of my neurosis yet, but suppose I should start somewhere. I’ll take my husband’s suggestion to do a hard reset. Instead of self-denial, I’ll train myself to do the exact opposite. “Say it, Melany, say it in the most diplomatic way possible, and hope for the best. And trust people more.”
As I write this, my husband and I have just celebrated our 19th wedding anniversary. Sometimes I can’t believe the number myself, but the date is engraved on my wedding ring. When I was 24, I chose this man to be with, among countless others, for the rest of my life. I am no dewy-eyed idealist, and I believe in divorce. But partly because of our recent argument, I’ve come to appreciate this marriage as a safe place for me.
Just as I feel safe with my food plans and my routines as a highly functioning anorexic, my marriage provides a sense of stability and reassurance. The consistency allows me to relax, knowing certain things won’t change dramatically. This, in turn, frees me up to rediscover myself in my 40s, even if that means blundering.
Isn’t it fantastic how once you begin acknowledging yourself and start verbalizing your needs, the world understands you better?
When you present yourself on a platter, bare and unadorned, without the fancy garnishes, this is honesty laid bare. However, if you cannot accept yourself, especially the not-so-good bits how can you expect anyone else to savor savor you? You can’t truly dish it.
It’s been several weeks working on self-acceptance, and the more I try to tolerate the fewer illusions I hold of a pretentious self. It takes self-awareness and concentration, but I can do this!
My stomach churns whenever I realize I never fully grew into the person I wanted to be as a young adult. But that’s alright, who I see now isn’t so bad at all. I am human and I’m making it up as I go along just like everybody else.
