Self-Sabotage 101

I was sitting in a corner table in the high school library where I worked, out of view of anyone who peered in the glass panel of the door.  My makeshift "At Lunch" sign was taped to the door. The lights were off.  My eyes were welling up with tears and it was difficult to swallow.  I was feeling panicky and overwhelmed.  The article I was reading on the student laptop said that abused people begin to believe that the abuse is "their fault," and they punish themselves through self-sabotaging behavior. I had a history of making unsatisfying choices and then feeling resentful or feeling that I really had no choice at all.

As a high school junior in the late 70s, I made the decision that I wanted to go to college.  I was excitedly looking into the journalism programs at Boston University, Hofstra and several other schools. My mother said in no uncertain terms could I go  away.  I had to go to a local school.  We were so poor, but having stellar grades and being Hispanic, I could have gotten tons of financial aid and scholarships to any school I wanted. There was no point in trying to reason with her.  I gave up my dream of going away. 

In my early twenties I got a job as a newspaper reporter after lots of painstaking work to land it.  I felt out of sorts there.  As with any job, there were situations where I needed to speak up and assert myself. But I never did. As a copy "girl" on the news desk it was my responsibility to check the newswires and route the stories to the appropriate editor.  Sometimes things were hectic and the man in the wire room would bring out batches of copy for myself and another copy clerk to distribute.  The other clerk would spend hours yammering on the phone and avoiding work.  I would put some of the copy in his basket and he would take it and put it back in mine.  I was too terrified to speak up about this. I walked around in a black cloud of depression.

Later in my thirties I short circuited my goal of getting my teaching certification to teach high school English by forgoing that goal and taking a job teaching primary grades.  Again, not what I wanted to do, but I felt I needed to let go of my goal to meet an immediate financial need which looking back now, was not so pressing.

I sat in the darkened library with tears streaming down my face as memories of these and other disappointing decisions swirled around my head.  I noticed I had ten more minutes before the end of period bell rang and the senior high school girls would come pouring in.   I needed to compose myself and fast. I would go from being an information specialist to being the food, beverage and noise police officer.  I made a decision to use my information gathering skills to find a good therapist.

I'm 53 years old and I'm fucked. And not in a good way. The 31 year marriage I thought was at its best, suddenly blew up. Just like that.  I was blindsighted.  Maybe I was too busy crying and feeling depressed to see it coming.

When I turned 50 three years ago,  I was in a state of shock.  Where had the years gone?  It was just yesterday that I had my then 23 year old daughter and 19 year old son.  Now my daughter was finishing up her first post college job with the non-profit group City Year and my son was away at Kent State.  I would look in the mirror and see a still young looking woman looking back at me a little sadly.

Oh yes, let's not forget menopause.  I had officially become a card carrying member of that group the previous year.  "You're a little young, but it does happen," my doctor said consolingly.  I could hardly wait for the coming onslaught of hot flashes and even more mood swings to add to my deepening all around crappy feeling.

A year later, my bright and lovely daughter  had not found her second post college job and my son had boomeranged back home from college after his love relationship had blown up in his face and living with this person became too painful.  At first my mom instincts kicked in and I all too gladly offered consolation and comfort.  But the realities of having two unemployed 20 somethings living at home was becoming less appealing.  I offered too many suggestions, they bristled and we would argue.

Me to my daughter:  "It's October.  This would be a good time to hit some stores and fill out some applications for holiday work."

My daughter to me:  "Will you get off my back!  You told me this last week! Why would I want to work retail with a college degree?"

My son to me:  "Mom you're being a nag again."

Back and forth it went.  If it wasn't with my daughter, it was with my son and sometimes both. 

Did I mention that I was miserable at my job and that my marriage had become a joyless slog? Thanks to Oprah.com, thoughts of a one weekend a month marriage with me living serenely in my own apartment began to occupy more of thoughts at work and home.