ICSA TODAY 2
I am a terrible person. Most people who know me would
(hopefully) disagree with this statement, but I have spent
my life convinced of its truth. It originated, seemingly out
of nowhere, when I was about eight years old, and I was
convinced of its certainty from then on. It explained why I
was bullied and outcasted, and constantly felt sad, when
everyone around me seemed happy. The pain I felt was at
least explained by the idea that I was terrible, and there was
something very wrong with me that everyone else could see.
Though the explanation was sad and unfixable, it provided a
greater sense of understanding, and thus control, than having
to accept that I just did not fit in with my peers and had an
unfortunate predisposition for depression and anxiety. Any
explanation was better than none.
My belief in my wrongness was not a passing thought—it
was an all-consuming, paralyzing obsession. I did everything I
could to change it, but something in my head perpetually told
me that there was something wrong within me, and no matter
what I did, I could never overcome it. The wrongness made me
fundamentally unlovable and unworthy of happiness.
Desperate People
Do Desperate Things
By Katherine M. Schneider
alphavector
©123RF.com
I am a terrible person. Most people who know me would
(hopefully) disagree with this statement, but I have spent
my life convinced of its truth. It originated, seemingly out
of nowhere, when I was about eight years old, and I was
convinced of its certainty from then on. It explained why I
was bullied and outcasted, and constantly felt sad, when
everyone around me seemed happy. The pain I felt was at
least explained by the idea that I was terrible, and there was
something very wrong with me that everyone else could see.
Though the explanation was sad and unfixable, it provided a
greater sense of understanding, and thus control, than having
to accept that I just did not fit in with my peers and had an
unfortunate predisposition for depression and anxiety. Any
explanation was better than none.
My belief in my wrongness was not a passing thought—it
was an all-consuming, paralyzing obsession. I did everything I
could to change it, but something in my head perpetually told
me that there was something wrong within me, and no matter
what I did, I could never overcome it. The wrongness made me
fundamentally unlovable and unworthy of happiness.
Desperate People
Do Desperate Things
By Katherine M. Schneider
alphavector
©123RF.com
