Am I a Loser?

One of my earliest memories as a child is one I prefer to forget.

I was about three or four years old, counting down the hours at a babysitter's home, keeping myself occupied with a set of zoo animal toys. The babysitter and her husband were fellow church members. They had six children, a girl my age preceded by five sons, all older and equally terrifying to me. It was a dog-eat-dog kind of family; a living Lord of the Flies. Just a hoard of boys unleashed upon the world full of energy, testosterone, and an invariable annoyance toward sensitive little girls in their vicinity.

I don't remember everything from those days, but I do remember the visceral feeling of fear whenever I happened to encounter those boys, especially the eldest two. That particular day I was standing in front of the toy box when a racket caught my attention. Turning to see who had arrived at the top of the landing, I realized that the brothers had ganged up in a group, sticking their tongues out at me as their held their fingers in the shape of an "L" on their foreheads.

Laughing, they called down to me by the toy box jeering, "Loooooser. You're a loser!"

Loser.

Loser. 

Loser.

Over and over again.

I remember turning my face back to a little toy zebra I was holding in my tiny four-year-old hands, my eyes flooding with tears as I struggled to process what was going on. My face felt so hot, but there was nowhere to run and nowhere to hide. I wouldn't be picked up for hours and my caregiver wouldn't have cared even if I told her. So I just hid my face, trying my best to make myself small, clutching that little zebra tight as I felt my world prickle and tighten into a harsh and unforgiving reality where I was apparently, a loser.

"Loser" was also the nastiest cuss word I had heard up until that point in my innocent life, and such a word being directed at me as a name was both humiliating and frightening in a way I've never been able to fully articulate.

I just couldn't understand why they were doing it.

Because I hadn't done anything to them.

I hadn't been loud or intrusive or annoying to those boys. In fact, I hardly spoke at all, choosing silence and shy deference as a way to hide or make myself invisible whenever they were around. I guess they didn't like that either though, now that I think of it, they also used to call me a scaredy-cat all the time.

But they were right; I absolutely was scared.

Beyond "scaredy-cat" and "loser," I also remember being called "prissy" because didn't like to get dirty in the backyard. (The brothers regularly made the younger children act as a little army of slaves, digging long trenches in the mud for their outdoor projects, as older siblings do.) The oldest brother was particularly nasty. Whenever I had the misfortune of being caught looking at him, he would glare and accuse me of staring, making a scene in front of the family. It was humiliating. I wondered what was so wrong with me that just resting my eyes on someone could make them disgusted. I must be disgusting, I quickly concluded.

I have a vague memory of asking my caregiver why no one liked me, one time when the brothers were away. I remember her brushing it off a bit, telling me that I used to cry a lot as a baby and didn't like other people holding me. That answer somehow made everything worse. Because if I was never liked at all, even as a baby, I must really be quite terrible to be around. Perhaps there was something incredibly wrong with me if I had apparently even done babyhood the wrong way.

One Winter, the brothers piled an enormous mound of snow against their garage until it reached the shingles. They turned it into a fortress, digging through the harsh Canadian ice until the entire pile was filled with an elaborate network of ice tunnels. I can't remember if they forced me and their sister into the tunnels, or if she insisted we were brave enough to go in, but however it happened, lest I be called a scaredy-cat again, I followed her in. I'll never forget fighting back tears as I army crawled into the ice, longing for my mother as the tunnel tightened around my hips and legs. I didn't know about claustrophobia back then, but it felt like I was going to die in those tunnels; like the snow would simply collapse and there would be no rescue... no one to care at all. Part of me believed the brothers would be relieved to be rid of my annoying presence, once and for all.

It's a complex thing really, to be so young and to feel so unwanted.

To feel like a bother and a nuisance and a plague at such a young age deforms your sense of self-worth in such a strong way because you are still learning of yourself and the world. While I have lovely childhood memories too, of my parents and grandparents, cousins and friends, it was impossible for me to ignore the constant humiliation pulsing through my veins every time I stopped to wonder "what's wrong with me?"

To be honest, the worst part of those days were not the names or the unwelcoming spirit nipping at my heels everywhere I went. No. The worst part, the most excruciating pain, and perhaps the most enduring lesson I learned was what it felt like to endure cruelty while those you hoped to protect you simply turned a blind eye.

No one intervened, no one stood up for me, and it felt like no one cared.

Not even my older brother.

Yes, Dear Reader, my older brother was there for most, if not all of these experiences. I'm sure he simply had no choice in the matter if he wished to save his own skin on the island of the Lord of the Flies, but he never stood up for me.

Not once.

Many times he would even stand with the brothers, his mouth in a thin line as they delivered their cruel words and nasty glares toward me. And such humiliation, cosigned by my own brother, seemed to confirm to me that not only was I a loser, but I was a loser to such a degree that even my own family wanted nothing to do with me; I must be particularly worthless indeed. He never told my parents what was going on, and I didn't either. I think I learned quickly that such humiliating abuse was meant to be a secret.

Thus, one of my earliest lessons in life was branded onto my ribs.

People can treat you like dirt, and nothing shall be done about it because you are, indeed, dirt.

I learned to not run for cover behind other people, because other people weren't going to protect me. All I could do was retreat into my own mind, disassociating from the fear squeezing my lungs. I created a place I could go in my mind, somewhere comforting and safe that instantly made me breathe slower and even smile. I can picture it now, as I write this. In my mind I see a green meadow hill rising up beneath a blue sky and fluffy thick clouds. A few pink wildflowers speckle the grass, blowing softly in the breeze as the long grass whispers. But the best part of this secret place in my mind is that the entire meadow hill is also covered in bunny rabbits. I watch their soft fur gleam in the sun as they slowly bouncing through the grass and flowers, a distant bird chirping somewhere behind me. It is safe here. Safe and beautiful and quiet and filled with animals.

Sometimes, I like to think that there must be a part of heaven like that meadow, waiting somewhere for me.

I went on to fear and hate going to that childcare family for a long time, counting down the minutes until my parents would pick me up. As I got older, my mom switched childcare to a different friend of hers, and I found a semblance of safety, eating microwave popcorn while watching episodes of Ellen or The Tyra Banks Show all by myself. I never felt lonely though. It was bliss to simply be left alone, petting their family cat 'Jazz' while I waited for my mom finish work.

It was peaceful.

But I still felt like a loser.

Looking back at my childhood now, I'm just relieved those boys didn't molest me or worse, but I can't help but feel how detrimental their misogynistic presence was to my budding sense of identity and personhood. And while I don't hold anything against them as they were children too, I do wish I had never been put in such an environment as a sensitive child; I was simply not tough enough for such things.

But then again, is anyone?

Of course, as I grew older and became pretty, I noticed that boys were no longer cruel. Ever. They would buy me things unprompted, hold doors, help me with my homework, and try to impress me with their jokes or athletics or grades. Boys would pick me first for their kickball team, buy me flowers, and beg me to go out with them.

And now, I was the one who caught them staring at me.

Lifting my eyes up from my schoolwork or lunch, I'd catch them gazing at me, only to abruptly drop their eyes, their cheeks flushing as they shifted in their seat, uncomfortable and red-eared as they avoided my eye. I wondered, time and time again, if those red-faced boys felt how I used to feel; that they were lowly and shouldn't even be caught looking at me.

It was bizarre, to go from fearing older boys to realizing that now, they seemed to fear me. And I could of course write an entirely separate blog post on the uncanny power of beauty and the accompanying intrinsic fear of losing such protections as one inevitably ages, but we shall return to the topic at hand.

Shame.

When I finally told my parents what had happened to me as a child, it was much later in life, maybe when I was a teen or so. They were shocked and immediately asked, "why didn't you tell us?"

And at the time, I couldn't answer them because I really didn't know.

Why didn't I tell them?

I don't think I fully understand it now, even as an adult, but I do recall a visceral desire to conceal what was happening to me. It was like I was oathed to silence. Somehow it felt that even telling someone what was happening would bring even more shame. I think that's the thing about abusive situations; the shame is so overwhelming that you are even too ashamed to tell people you are being abused. In an absurd way, it almost feels like telling someone about your abuse will cause the virus to spread, making more and more people you as worthless too.

Unsurprisingly, I grew to become extremely protective of anyone who could be described as an "underdog." While I had no one to stand up for me, I felt a raging passion to speak up for others.

In the seventh grade, my best friend was prescribed a bulky set of external headgear by our orthodontist. Genuinely, I cannot imagine a more humiliating experience for a middle-school girl, and our entire friend group shared in her devastation at the turn of orthodontic events. But she was brave, far braver than me, and decided she would indeed wear her headgear to school. She was scared, but she had a bunch of protective girls backing her up. The first day she wore it to school, a group of the meanest boys in our class began snickering and rounding up like a pack of hyenas, ready to pounce on my poor best friend. Without missing a single beat, I launched myself in front of her with a sassy hand on my hip, tossing my hair as I drilled daggers into their skulls.

"Don't you DARE say anything to her." I hissed the words, crossing my arms as they all exchanged a tentative look.

Mercifully, the boys didn't retaliate with a logical, "or what?" Because really, I had no threats to offer beyond "or I'll tell your mothers," but regardless, they didn't say anything mean and my friend was able to wear her headgear in relative peace for the rest of the year. Bless her heart. She has a beautiful smile.

Looking back at that incident, I wonder why I didn't cower in front of those boys. They were roughly the same age as the brothers were at the time of my abuse, but I just wasn't afraid. I suppose it was because I inherently believed that my friends deserved to have someone stand up for them; it didn't matter if I got caught in the cross-hairs.

But standing up for myself, even in the privacy of my own mind, was never so simple.

It took hardly any effort to get me to believe I was useless or worthless or ugly or annoying. I became overly sensitive to even the smallest of hints that someone was bored of me or bothered by my presence. And I struggled with emotional regulation too, finding myself boiling in anger over the smallest hurts before collapsing in a heap of tears and pain. If anyone was mean to me, I tended to align with their view of me.

I was a loser, remember?

I believed I deserved cruel words and humiliation. Because apparently, even when I was just a baby, I was somehow a terrible person to be around. I just wasn't lovable. I lacked the innate quality of 'lovability' that other children are just born with. Even the statement "Jesus loves you," would cause me to cringe and feel ashamed. Because wasn't Jesus an older boy? Didn't he have a gang of disciples and brothers around him? How could he love me? I was lowly.

He probably wouldn't even want me to look him in the eye.

---

Whenever I consider these painful early memories, I tended to brush to brush them off with a flushed face. Because it wasn't a big deal, right? My trauma wasn't severe or anything close to what other people are made to endure as children. The abuse didn't involve actual violence or anything sexual or truly extreme. In fact, the concept that such small incidents and unimportant people had managed to derail my sense of self-worth only humiliated me further. How weak I must be, I thought, to let something so small ruin my confidence and self-esteem.

I had entirely written off the possible significance of those traumatic early childhood incidents until rather recently, when they were abruptly excavated from the depth of my wounded soul.

When my husband had his car accident and surgery a few years ago, we were invited to a family friend's vacation home for a meal. We went, though I don't know why, my husband hobbling into the beach house on a scooter while I carried both our sons, ready to enjoy burgers and community. Bodie was two and Troy was only a little over a year old. My husband was friends with the father of the family, a nice Christian brood with four or five children, and this would be our first time spending time with them. I imagine they wanted to bless our stressed family, providing some company and a meal with only the best intentions.

Really, I had no way of knowing that the evening would end up ripping open some of my most sensitive and embarrassing childhood wounds.

The nasty behavior from their children began subtly, but I could tell immediately that the eldest son in particular was not keen on sharing his family's vacation with a few strangers and some babies. No sooner had we gotten out to the sand with our toddling littles before he had already hoarded away all the sand toys, refusing to share any with Bodie and Troy, all without correction from his busy parents. I felt my hackles raise, watching their interactions closely, a pit in my stomach growing and growing as Bodie tried to find a suitable toy to play with that wouldn't be taken by this boy. I could understand the child in a way. I probably wouldn't want to share my toys with a random baby if I were him either. But still, I kept a close eye.

Later on I was sitting with his mother on an interior porch, discussing life and the like when I noticed that the older children had cornered Bodie just outside of my view. Rising to get a better look, I saw a scene which still makes my stomach twist, recounting it here. The much older children had circled Bodie, blocking him off from any exit as they laughed and dumped sand on his sweet little head, taunting him about the toys they did not want to share. He didn't understand what was happening, being only two-and-a-half, and just kept running his fingers through his hair, wiping off the sand while they laughed and dumped more and more sand on him.

I felt my soul leave my body as I leapt up and intervened, halting the situation with a cry as I waited for their mother to involve herself as well. Running outside, I brought Bodie to me while being careful to not betray my panic, keeping a smiling face for my son before redirecting him to safer pastures. The children's mother chose to manage the situation with a soft word, and the father's got involved for a moment as well, but to me, it felt like everyone brushed it off rather quickly.

I guess "kids will be kids" and "boys will be boys" is a strong sentiment in most cultures.

Not my culture though.

I remained, watching the children like an unforgiving hawk for the next few hours, careful to shoot a look if necessary at the oldest boy in particular, reminding him I was watching. But soon the husbands took over, watching the children on the other side of the vacation home, setting up a game of corn hole while the ladies set the table. I was doing my best to socialize while also keeping an eye on the children through the doorway.

I watched as little baby Troy toddled up to the corn hole set, scooping up a bean bag to bring to his mouth for a curious little chew.

Crash!

An intruding bean bag had suddenly appeared, smacking into Troy's little baby belly as he stepped to the side, trying to balance himself with a little yelp. A sharp scattering of laughter rang out, followed by another bean bag flying toward him, this time narrowly missing his head.

One wary bean bag might be an accident, but two? Troy was not in the way: he was the target.

Sprinting from the kitchen, I closed the distance in an instant before scooping my baby up to my chest, adrenaline surging in my veins. Wheeling around, I quickly found the responsible party, a smug little boy who was quickly dealt with by his father, though I could not help but feel spectacularly unsatisfied by the handling of the situation. That child was old enough to know better than to throw a heavy bean bag at a baby. And to laugh about it too?

I wasn't hungry anymore. All I wanted was to go home. We ate a quick dinner while I kept the boys on my lap and away from the other children, abandoning all efforts at connecting with the couple and instead putting my full focus on protecting my children.

Something was stirring in me; something deep and primal and rageful.

When we finally left, I instantly dissolved into a heaping mess of aghast incredulity and tears. Soon I wasn't just crying; I was actually sobbing, picturing over and over how Bodie had looked so sincere and innocent, blinking up at those children as they laughed at his innocent expense. My husband was concerned, trying to talk me through the situation while reassuring me that the children would be okay and we wouldn't have to have those kids around again.

But I couldn't be assuaged. The more I spoke of it all, the more unravelled I became, my mouth sticky with saliva as I tried to get ahold of myself.

Why was I so distraught?

What was happening to me?

Again and again, I saw Bodie and Troy's faces, how they were focused on their toys and wanting to engage with the older children, only be met with cruelty.

'They're just babies! They don't deserve that!' My mind was shouting the words, again and again on a loop until something deep inside my soul and memory snapped into place.

They were innocent babies.

And so was I.

I had been just a baby. And I didn't deserve it either. Any of it.

Because there is no universe in which a baby "deserves" to be mistreated.

For the first time in my entire life, I could see the truth. I could finally see how nonsensical it was to bully a shy little child. I could finally see that it was ridiculous to blame a baby for crying too much or calling a nervous little girl a scaredy-cat for not wanting to crawl through a maze of terrifying ice tunnels. I felt the deep vulnerability of being brought to a home of strangers, eager to belong, only to be turned away for some reason outside of my own making. And most of all, I felt the pain of how easily the other adults had brushed the incidents off.

Everything made sense to me after that day.

My children didn't deserve cruelty. It was so obvious. Even if they had shown up whiny or not wanting to get dirty, as I apparently did as a child, they did not deserve to be hit or called names or have sand poured on them.

They didn't deserve it.

And neither did I.

While I had always known that the brothers were wrong for being mean or cruel on the basis of morality and the standards of God, I had never accepted that I did not deserve to be the target of such treatment. The shame of feeling as though I deserved to be bullied was buried so deep inside me that I had turned into my own worst bully.

But that day at the beach house allowed me to finally see things for what they were. I could finally feel the pain beneath my shame; pain I had concealed my entire life. I could feel the confusion, the humiliation, and the repeated terror I held at having to go back to that house time and time again, not knowing if it would be a good day or a bad day. And I finally accepted that the heaviest part of my shame was not that I had been targeted; it was that no one wanted to protect me. That was what made me feel like I deserved it all. Because not only was I being picked on, no one wanted to protect me from it either.

I just wasn't worth the effort; no one was coming to save me.

I cannot fathom watching Bodie getting sand dumped on him and not doing anything. I can't even imagine hearing about such an incident afterward and not going back in, riding on a chariot of fire, ready to confront the children or the parents or everyone involved all at once. Because I love him. And when we love someone, we protect them.

That desire to be protected is married to the natural human desire to be loved; we long to be loved and accepted, and when we are not, if our sense of self is unstable or unformed, we may believe that we are not loved because something is inherently wrong with us.

But now I could see that there was nothing wrong with me.

Finally, through the eyes of a mother, I could see that no child, not even myself, would ever deserve to feel humiliated just for existing.

I released the shame and quickly took on what I had never been able to feel--- anger.

It took nearly twenty five years, but anger had finally arrived, thick and unbending, seeping from my wounds as I felt the injustice of my stolen innocence and battered self-worth crash down upon my heart. Getting angry on behalf of my children allowed me get angry on behalf of myself; something I had never felt before.

I've since come to realize that when you feel ashamed, you are unable to simultaneously feel angry. It's impossible. Because to be angry, you must feel that there has been injustice. To be angry, you must have a bit of fight left in yourself, for your dignity and pride and wellbeing. But I had no fight left in me.

Now as an adult, I've noticed this phenomenon through observing abusive relationships. The victim is often so broken down by the shame and humiliation and lack of self-worth that they are unable to even feel angry on their own behalf. Everyone wonders why victims don't leave after the cheating or the abuse, but I can tell you that it is because of shame. It is because of the belief that somehow, you deserve what is happening to you and that there is no true injustice taking place at all.

Only when you release your shame and acknowledge the injustice are you finally able to feel anger. And anger over injustice is good. It is grounding and righteous to feel outraged at wrongdoings. It is dignifying to the soul to feel anger on your own behalf when you have been wronged. And abusers the world over will try to eliminate your power to take action by eliminating your sense of self-worth.

But we do not need to stay in the battered trenches of self-loathing.

Healing is possible.

Recently I was watching a YouTube video on recovering from trauma and shame from a wonderful author and psychologist, Dr. Christopher Germer. He explained the connection between shame and desire; that beneath much of our shame is a deep unfulfilled desire to be loved or accepted or simply to belong.

And when I think of myself when I was young, wondering what was wrong with me and unable to figure it out, I do remember desperately wanting to simply be accepted. I didn't want to be singled out or rejected because really, I wanted to be loved.

He shared that shame is the belief that something is wrong with us that renders us unlovable.

Unworthy.

Too flawed to be accepted just as we are. 

That beneath that shame, there is the need to be loved, to belong, and to be accepted. He explained that we would never feel shame if we did not wish to be loved. And more than that, I think I was searching for whether or not I was lovable at all. And while I certainly had some sources in my life show me love, I was so young and the information was so uncertain that I unwittingly took on the belief that I was not lovable.  

But the beautiful thing is that now that I am older, I feel the love of my family. I feel the love of Jesus and my friends and even the love I have for myself. Loving and protecting my children helped me connect to the little child in myself, seeing her innocence and choosing to protect and love her, even when no one else would.

---

I like to listen to interviews and read autobiographies from people who have survived extreme trauma and come out the other side a stronger person. The profound wisdom that can only be fraught through extreme circumstances and subsequent survival has been an encouragement and a balm to my wounded soul. However, I have noticed an interesting pattern in all their stories. No matter what they endured, be it physical torture or sexual abuse, most, if not all of the survivors reveal that the worst part of their ordeal was not the physical pain, but the psychological. The humiliating debasement and breaking down of their self-worth and dignity hurt far more than any of the physical scars they still carried.

From prisoners of war to victims of MK Ultra experiments, pedophilia, domestic violence, or even basic bullying like what I endured, everyone has described the breaking down of identity and dignity to be the most long-lasting and difficult wound to close. And while I am eternally grateful that my scars were not earned by far more sadistic people, I have also come to accept that I still have wounds. It doesn't matter how seemingly minor the incidents were; the fact that they were repeated, psychologically distressing, and during early childhood resulted in psychological wounds that I indeed, need to heal from.

"Hurt people hurt people," they say.

I guess everyone is hurt then. But when I'm hurt, I go silent... I retreat... I don't seek a victim for my hurt. I suppose I mainly hurt myself.

Why is that?

I don't know.

But I do know that I have a burning desire to stop hurting myself.

Trauma-based care for people suffering from CPTSD often starts with this: a foundational moment where we hold hands and say those words out loud: "that was not right. You did not deserve that. It's terrible that that happened." Validating the victimized person begins the process of assigning injustice to your ordeal, rather than the cloak of deservedness we so eagerly don in our shame.

Every opportunity I have to help someone know that truth, that what was done to them was not right, I take it. Whenever anyone opens up about anything messed up in their past, I hold their proverbial hands and tell them, "you didn't deserve that. That was WRONG." Because when we label things as "wrong," we release ourselves from the burden of feeling like we deserved that pain. And then, we can release the shame.

I'm convinced that all hurting people needs this. Heck, if one of those mean boys from childhood had told me their story--- why they acted that way and what was really going on--- I would hold their hands today and say, "I'm sorry that happened to you. That was wrong."

And that's the key to healing, I think.

Forgiveness and loving the people who hurt you, regardless of whether or not you'll ever get true reconciliation or an apology. I don't need an apology. All I need is to look on my little past self, give her a hug, and begin to heal from the deep scars of humiliation and shame. To tell myself, "that was wrong," so that I can stop feeling like I deserved it. To feel the anger I never felt and accept the love I never had.

Sometimes, I think I could have handled being called a loser if someone older and wiser had stood between me and the aggressor and said "don't talk to her like that." I think I wouldn't have believed myself to be a loser if someone had just said: "that's not true; they're just being mean and you are not a loser."

But life doesn't work like that, does it?

Some of us will experience repeated traumatizing abuses. Some of us will never have someone to stand up for us. Some of us will go through entire decades of our life with no one to validate our pain or ease our shame. Some of us need to dig ourselves out from under the heaping burden of being humiliation all alone or with no one beside us but Jesus Christ.

And it may be hard and it may hurt, but I can tell you that it is worth it. Most of my growth has been on my own, between God and myself. I haven't had a therapist or monologued to my husband about these things for hours. No. I've journaled and learned and processed this on many of my walks and as I hold my children and consider my blessings. I'm healing because I can hold my own hands and tell myself, "you are not a loser. They are wrong and cruel and you do not deserve to be treated this way."

That is self-compassion, and that is where healing begins.

Dr. Germer explains this in that video I spoke of earlier. That in order to heal, we must have compassion for ourselves. Unfortunately, I had adopted the mentality of those bullies, bullying myself; "toughen up," I'd tell myself. "It's not so bad." Over and over, berating myself for not being okay with feeling incredibly unwanted and uncomfortable. But imagining that happening to my own child puts it into perspective to me.

There wasn't anything wrong with me.

I was just a child.

And now, I have compassion for that child; for that little girl who just wanted to be accepted in a stranger's home. I have compassion for that same girl who grew up into a teen, still battling against low self-worth as it developed into self-harm. And I have compassion and love for the woman I am now, still struggling through the weight of shame as I accept my deep desire to be loved and the inevitable vulnerability that comes with such things.

Wasn't shame one of the first results of sin? Adam and Eve realized they were naked and they were ashamed. My favorite verse on the topic is Psalm 34:5 "Those who look to him are radiant, and their faces shall never be ashamed."

How beautiful is that?

I may feel ashamed of myself, like a loser or a victim, or completely low, but when I look to God, I feel gratitude and awe. My view of myself shrinks in the radiance of him, and through Him, I too become radiant. His touch on my life has been radiant. He has made all things beautiful, even amidst the trauma and wounds. He has never abandoned me, and what I can be glad for are the lessons he has taught me and the care he has provided for me.

I'm realizing even now that I write all of this, processing these pains and attempting to connect the dots, that there is much good that has come out of those early childhood traumas.

People wonder often and out loud why my boys are so sweet.

They will constantly comment on their sweet and gentle demeanor, sometimes in awe, wondering just how I accomplished such a thing. While I cannot take credit for their genuine adorable souls, I do believe that I have put much of my maternal effort into creating a home that fosters male innocence. I wonder sometimes, if those mean boys had the room or guidance to nurture their softer sides, if they would not have felt a bit more pity or self-consciousness regarding their treatment of me. I've come to believe that there is danger in dividing the masculine from the feminine; because without any sensitivity or compassion, a masculine force grows to be ruthless and cruel. Balanced people require guidance and teaching in order to model and nurture their compassion and sensitivity, but they also need a soft enough environment to safely explore their sentimental or subconscious side.

It is a priority for me as a mother to form boys that feel safe in their innocence.

Furthermore, my experiences have also led me to be a bit of an unapologetic mama bear. I simply don't play when it comes to the treatment of my children. I never feel guilty or wrong for protecting them from bad situations with adults or other children. I'm never cruel, but I'm extremely firm with standing our ground. I know some moms struggle with how to stand up for their children on the playground and at play dates, but this has never been an issue for me. And if my boys happen to be the ones being cruel or naughty, I discipline them. Everyone deserves love and kindness.

There is no "boys will be boys" in my house.

And now that I write this all out for you Dear Reader, I have come to another conclusion that I perhaps have never connected before within myself. I think that my harsh experiences with misogynistic boys at a formative age programmed me to RUN at the first sign of male cruelty. Again and again and again, as if it was being beaten into me like a survivor of MK Ultra, I received the programming that cruel males have the capacity to ruin your life. The trauma and fear stimuli of their bullying and my shame repeated on loop as the messages tattooed onto the skin of my soul.

Cruel males will make you feel unsafe.

Cruel males will ruin your self-esteem.

Cruel males will make you feel small.

Cruel males will force you to do things you don't want to do.

Thus, I have never been attracted to cruel males. They frighten and disgust me. I suppose I could have turned around and wanted validation from mean men to somehow prove I wasn't a loser, but I didn't. Instead, I turned around and found them repulsive to such a degree that I've never even so much as had a crush on a man like that in all my life.

Really, when I think about it, I simply can't find a man attractive at all until I know his character and personality. Celebrity crush? Forget it! Looks are nothing to me. Men are blobs of nothingness until I see how they treat others and feel how they treat me. In fact, I can't even describe what those boys looked like. I think they were handsome, but their personalities made them hideous. I can still see the evil glare in their eyes. I've never been swept away in a man's looks and have always had a supremely difficult time comprehending the idea of "love at first sight" or only dating a guy for being handsome or tall or well-dressed. Everyone I ever dated was my friend first. Even my husband! An "enemies-to-lovers" romance? Disgusting. I feel repulsed by men who make me feel unsafe.

All these people on the Internet want to talk about a "high value man."

Well, if you want to know what I think a high value man is, it would be someone who raises your self-esteem rather than crushes it. It would be someone who provides safety and the space for you to be yourself without criticism or taunting. Thankfully, that is exactly who I married. I am glowing brighter ten years into marriage than I even did as a child. He brings out the best in me, celebrates me, and has never once, made me feel dumb, stupid, or like a loser. He's safe and my best friend, and I fell in love with him because of his character.

Perhaps I do have those cruel boys to thank.

I really did learn what to avoid.

Now that I'm here on my blog, I wonder too, if I would have ever come online in a fierce defense of femininity without these early childhood experiences.

Much of my bullying seemed to revolve around the crime of not being masculine enough. I was sensitive and shy... "prissy" and a "scaredy-cat." They didn't know how to handle femininity, and I think much of the world does not either. Many of us go through these experiences throughout our life, men and even other women pushing us to not be so sensitive or feeling, wondering why we're dressed up or pushing us to be brave when we don't want to. It's a harsh world. A patriarchal and masculine world, really. It's hard to be a feminine girl and even ahrder to explore your femininity without the protection of a masculine presence. It forces you to become masculine too, shoving down your feminine side in shame.

I think that's why I've been able to grow so much since marriage; my husband appreciates feminine things and is happiest when I can be soft and peaceful. This is why it means so much to me that he sleeps in our peachy pink bedroom, the floral curtains blowing softly around the windows of the home he bought for us. He is secure enough in his masculinity that he can appreciate my femininity. It's safe for both of us.

In general, I do feel grateful for the lessons I have learned and hopeful for a continued rebuilding of my personal sense of self-worth. I'm grateful too that those were not my actual brothers and that was not my actual home. It was a relatively short part of my life, and I'm grateful too that I now know these things to be able to share with you.

I don't hold resentment or anger over my past. I doubt those children even remember doing what they did to me. All of them went on to marry beautiful women and forge successful businesses and careers... I suppose that tracks for such a ruthless bunch. LOL. Last I heard, most of them even have a few daughters each. Maybe their hearts have softened now that they have little girls of their own.

I hope so.

But regardless, thank you for reading dear one.

Remember to hold your head high.

Do not hold shame in your heart.

You are simply a soul created by God with an innate desire to be loved.

And that is an innocent and pure thing to be.

Love,

Cait

PS.

As I go back to edit and re-dit this blog, the title and image already chosen, I find myself cringing and pulling back every time I see the word "loser" situated so close to the face of a little child. It makes me feel uncomfortable. Really, I almost changed the title because it just doesn't feel right to see such a word near a little girl like that.

But maybe that was the point all along; it was never okay. It was never true or right or anything other than uncomfortable and strange to ever call such a small child such a sad name. Perhaps you could say that it puts it into perspective, seeing it laid out like that. And I feel sad for that girl all over again. Because now it's just so obvious.

I was not a loser.

I was a child.