Loser No Longer!

For much of my life, I felt like a Loser with a capital L. I suffered from such an all-consuming lack of self-confidence that it makes me cringe just thinking about the former incarnation of myself, but it was literally all I knew for about twenty years.

As a little girl, I felt like a “loser” because I was incredibly easily embarrassed and a MAJOR crybaby, a condition you may have read about in medical journals under Something Is Wrong With This Kid, No Normal Child Acts This Way (perhaps you’re more familiar with the diagnosis’s acronym, SIWWTKNNCATW). Forget your homework at home? Burst into tears. Give the wrong answer in class? Sob uncontrollably. Embarrassed by your reputation as The Girl Who Always Cries? Better have a good cry about that!

And god forbid I try to make it through a sleepover…after one too many desperate 11pm calls begging my bedraggled mother to retrieve me, I wised up and started making excuses to avoid these events ahead of time.

(Loser, sure; savvy, absolutely.)

In junior high and high school, my inferiority complex did not improve. I wasn’t particularly stylish (helllooooo, eyeliner!) or popular, and although I was quite smart (if I do say so myself…and I totally do), I was too apathetic and ADD to really achieve anything particularly worthy of pride in that arena. To make matters worse, I was still entirely too emotional, and while being a crybaby at age six or eight or even ten might be somewhat pitiable (at least to the kindest children and teachers), people just sort of steer clear of a sobbing fifteen year old (and really, who could blame them? How the hell are you supposed to react when a seemingly normal teenage girl loses her shit at a completely innocuous request to talk a bit more quietly?! The best part of this sub-story is that the awesome teacher making the request wasn’t even telling me not to chat during class…just to be more quiet about it! That poor man. Sadly for me and the entire LCHS staff and student population, this particular incident was nowhere near an isolated occurrence).

On a lighter note, also not helping my case during those fragile teen years was my hair, which was so frighteningly frizzy I’m surprised Child Protective Services didn’t show up at my house to investigate why I was being electrocuted on a daily basis (because surely there was no other explanation for my appearance). Yes, I’m sure every female reading this has horror stories of bad hair days, but I am here to tell you, you have no idea what bad hair is. I did not have a bad hair day, I had a bad hair half-decade. I am nauseous at the very idea of sharing a photo of me between the ages of 11 and 14 (my sister innocently used a photo from this era in a famiy slideshow she made a couple of years ago, and I literally cried), but I’ll help you develop your mental image of Junior High Mo by telling you that some jerkwads in my 9th grade drama class tried to cast me as Don King in a hilaaaaaaarious Mike Tyson sketch. I’m neither black nor male nor a boxing promoter (contrary to what you may have been led to believe!), so the reasoning behind this brilliant casting decision should not require theatre production expertise to deduce.

Thanks to my discovery of quality hair gel and, later, the rise in popularity of hair straighteners (god’s greatest gift to modern humanity), my hair eventually stopped getting me typecast in roles of insane afro’d men. I may have even experienced two or three good hair days my senior year. My self-esteem, on the other hand, did not enjoy the same improvement when I graduated and moved on to college.

I imagine you will not be surprised to learn that the SIWWTKNNCATW-afflicted girl who couldn’t hack it at neighborhood sleepovers and cried when high school teachers did so much as speak to her did not fare well at college. I know — total shocker! Thanks to my myriad issues, I lasted precisely 3 semesters at SDSU (approximately 0.28% of which were remotely productive) before succumbing to the final wrung on the Loser Ladder:

I gave up and moved home.

That decision, while the best one I could make at the time lest I lose what little of my sanity remained, is one that weighed heavily on me for many years thereafter and was a major contributor to the adult iteration of my “I’m such a loser” routine. Perhaps my lack of a 4-year degree wouldn’t feel so shameful were I from a different town or a different family or married to a different man (not that I wish any of those things were true!), or if the reason behind my dropping out were something cool and independent like “school’s just not for me, I’m an artist!” or even if I was just not bright enough for higher learnin’. But knowing that I was more than intelligent enough for college but just didn’t do it sickened and humiliated me.

To make matters worse, I have five wonderful and beautiful sisters who all also happen to be disgustingly impressive in their educational and professional lives. Teachers and nurses and counselors, oh my! Now, I did eventually go back to school and finish up a very practical associates degree, and I have a good job for which I’m grateful and at which I excel (if I do say so myself, which, again, I totally do), but “I do some stuff on some websites” doesn’t quite compare to “I save the lives of cancer-ridden babies” or “I educate our nation’s children.” I have long felt like the black sheep of the family, quietly sitting out the college-reminiscence chats and having nothing to contribute to a discussion about interesting happenings at work (although stories like “one time, I accidentally typo’d in a product description and for three minutes anyone who went to our online store thought this router had five ethernet ports instead of four!” would surely be a hit), even though we all know I’m actually the smartest of the six of us (you guys still reading this?).

Despite undergoing a complete emotional makeover in my mid-twenties that I would classify as 99% successful, there was still a little part of me that felt insecure and, well, like a bit of a loser. There was the nagging feeling that I could and should have done more with my life. I wouldn’t even let TFW frame and hang up my associates degree, because it just reminded me of what I didn’t achieve and how I should be doing something better, smarter, or more special. I was happy in my life, but I was still very sensitive about my lack of achievements.

And then I had Bubba.

Now, I’m not advocating that all the depressed teens with self-esteem issues should go get knocked up so they can find some purpose to their lives, primarily because there are only so many openings on 16 And Pregnant, and without MTV’s monetary support parenting is quite difficult even when you’re much older. But for me, becoming a mother solidified my sense of self and gave me a level of confidence I truly was not aware existed. I love my son, and he doesn’t give a hoot whether I went to one day of school or ten years or if I’m flipping burgers for a living or performing brain surgery. My ability to be a good mom has zero to do with my achievements in life or perceived lack thereof, and that is enormously refreshing.

Tomorrow, my amazing little sister will start her career as a high school biology teacher just months after earning her credential. If this had happened a year or two ago, while I would have been excited for her, I would have also spent three weeks obsessing over how I should have been more like her and feeling embarrassed about my own life. But today, I don’t feel that way. I feel extraordinarily proud of her and can’t wait to hear all about her first day…and that’s it. I’m not jealous. I’m not regretful that I’m not in her position. I have a life so perfect no “loser” would even dare dream of it. Why would I wish things were any different?

I love my son, I love my life…and we love Auntie Jamie! All together now: YAY!

PS: I apologize for this lengthy and decidedly un-funny post. Tomorrow I’ll tell some jokes and try to get you to forget that if my hair straightener were to go on the fritz, I would indeed still look like Don King.