Self-confidence. Self-loathing. Key measuring sticks by which we measure human happiness or misery, success or failure. We eschew self-loathing, but we aspire to self-confidence, self-esteem, self-love.
And what we really want (but shhhh, don’t admit it, since that would make us look bad), is to stand just a little taller than the neighbor, to make more money, have a hotter spouse, enjoy more lavish or exotic vacations, to know our kids are smarter, faster, handsomer, funnier. (The contents of social media demonstrates this better than anything I can write.)
But the thing about confidence or self-esteem is how little, if any, we actually know about the thing that is said to be confident. Confident in what: the appearance of the body? The contents of the mind?
Which might explain why, more often than not, the supremely confident can be such assholes. They’re so confident in their confidence it rarely occurs to them that the trail of tears left in their wake is caused by, well, them.
My late-father was a very, very confident fellow. Brilliant, athletic, handsome. And very, very often, a jerk.
Four marriages followed by four divorces, estranged from his children and just about every other family member, professionally screwed over by the same man chosen as his best man, loathed by a business associate who spent time on the FBI’s most wanted list. You get the idea.
Over lunch not long after wife #3 had once again given him the boot, my father complained: “How do I keep ending up with these screwed-up women?” To which I responded: “WHO is the common denominator in that equation, dad?” His eyes gazed off into the distance where, no doubt, my words were destined after sailing right over his head.
Wife #4 would take the cake: an attractive 21-year-old Ukrainian (my dad was roughly 65 at the time) with shark’s eyes who would leave him not long after graduating from the college he’d put her through (he had offered no such help for his own kids). For days after he would call me from his truck and I would have to dissuade him from locating and shooting her and her boyfriend. That a man 40-plus years the senior of a young woman could seriously feel betrayed in such a situation speaks volumes to the degree of ‘self-confidence’ (self-delusion) involved.
My father was a poster child for ego run amok and I see so many similarities in Donald Trump (for the record, I’m apolitical and could care less about any party or its leaders). Trump reeks of narcissism in the extreme, sociopathy (an inability to truly connect with or empathize with others), and hypersensitivity to the least little criticism, real or perceived.
But here’s the thing: it wasn’t my dad’s fault. He was engineered that way. Deified by his parents, blessed with innate intelligence (he secured his Master’s in astrophysics in 10 months, got his JD at 65, etc.) and a physicality unusual for his time (6-5, 230 pounds when the average man stood 5-9), my father emerged from an inaugural US Air Force Academy class a pilot and man among men.
Years later, after my dad had abandoned our family, his own father would confess that he and my grandmother had made a huge mistake in putting my dad on a pedestal. In so many words, they had helped to create a monster.
But hey, we all do this to varying degrees, yes? Who among us hasn’t coddled, pampered, and at times inflated our children’s egos? Conversely – and I speak from direct experience here – who among us, raised by a narcissist, sociopath, et al, didn’t desperately emulate the pompous, arrogant behavior of said parent in hopes of securing at least a little love, acceptance, or basic tolerance? (We become assholes for oh-so-many reasons.)
Decades of my life have been spent keenly sensitive to the least little slight; seeking attention through humor (class clown, anyone?) or outlandish behavior; and an outsized mouth that has answers even for questions unasked or opinions unsought.
Yet through it all, a deep-seated terror of being unmasked and found wanting. The closer another got to that hidden truth, the more strenuous the outbursts and objections, the histrionics and pouting, the excuses and escapes.
Self-help books and haphazard stints in therapy shed light on these behaviors and the motivations behind them, yet despite this knowledge (or perhaps because of it?), again and again history repeated itself, and I, like my father before me, became a serial liar and a cheat, a fraud and a blowhard.
And though we arrived at that same sordid destination from diametrically opposed starting points – he a living god, me his eponymous namesake doomed to be kept at arm’s (and heart’s) reach – ego, for us both, was the driving force.
Ego. Here is what ails the whole of humanity, the thing that is poisoning this earth and the tattered and battered little army of life forms hanging in there despite our collective assault.
Me. Myself. I. The thing each of us takes for granted yet knows nothing about (and rarely, if ever, investigate). We’ve covered this ground before, many times, actually. But maybe it’s worth repeating (and don’t take it from me, there are plenty of outstanding and far more authentic voices out there offering the same).
What are you? The body? Great! Dazzle us all with your ability to stop the heart from beating, the cells from dividing. Dive deep and reengineer your DNA – it is YOURS, after all – to grow bigger and better muscles (I’d like some hair), maybe an extra 50 years of life – hell, why not immortality?
The mind? Stop thinking (good luck with that). Or, jot down what you’ll be thinking exactly 11 minutes from now (guaranteed you’ll be surprised). Or, hold a thought – just hold it – and while you’re holding it (hey! hey! STOP moving!) examine it, dissect it, figure out what it is, what it’s made of, where it came from…. too late, there it goes. Hmmm, WHERE did it go? And where are all these new ones coming from? Ack, stop!
Not the body. Not the brain.
Now get on with YOUR day.
