Imposter Syndrome
"Imposter Syndrome" is another of the pop psychology terms of my early therapy which seems to have all but disappeared. In the alphabet soup my damaged memory has made of my pro guided therapy, it is deeply intertwined with the "Therapy Funeral" which facilitated my acceptance that help was simply not available from my huge, rowdy and over-sexed, quasi-nomadic clan. If I wanted to heal, I would need to "heal as an orphan." At that point, I was the Great White Hope of the rainbow citizens in throw-away kid camps. My father had been touting me as the family saviour since he was defending my slow early development as the mark of genius. He had quite a few old "Scots-Irish" stories to back his promotion. U.S. Army officials had tried to get me to use the Officer Candidate resources to fulfill my dreams of academic achievement. VA officials were confident I would be able to use the standard GI Bill to choose from a broader academic buffet.
That therapy was quite a few years in progress when I first rolled in to my fiancee's silver platter homestead. Yikes!!! My hiking bud sure looked different in his family living room. What happened to my poet? What happened to that big, strapping fellow who thought Lady Engineers were sexy? His family silver studded strap looked way different than the strap he had roped me in with. Silver is a very soft metal, but plenty strong for cutting skin when fixed to a strip of the finest of soft leather.
The estate close-out is still going well. I think. I pray. Still wish I had a silver platter jungle guide/interpreter. So far we are still just removing evidence that a marketing executive has been trying to get Registered Nurses to run the Housekeeping Department. Getting quilts out of the toy closet, etc., etc. Eldest Son and his Significant Other showed last night to pitch in. Eldest son put on his "Throw away nazi badge" and filled more trash bags than I have taken the time to count. We got one of the vehicles (dead batteries for all) rolled out of the man cave and has made a fair start in defusing the chemical bomb of benign neglect in the chemical era. There are electro/mechanical/landscaping chemical treasures from the 70's in that mix. . .
Still sorting. . .
Replies
When I read your post "imposter syndrome", I thought of my ex husband. Full of charm but nothing added up and a pedophile too so not a great catch. I think to read people is one of two things, either first gut (Malcolm Galdwell says 97% accurate), or time will show the true self. In one of Gladwell books, can't remember which one, it was a study that showed it took us 15 years to really know someone and at that point we knew them better then themselves. I am still getting to know "myself" lol
Your son sounds like he was a huge help the other day, to me that speaks volumes. Glad you got some help, that always feels good. :)
My interest in trying to read people turned into an bored-state pass time a very long time ago. Mostly just something I do to keep from climbing the walls in waiting rooms, be they transit, medical, legal, etcetera, etceteri. Typically, I am not that interested in what people say. Show me your do. . .
Yup. Proof unavailable, but I only believe I am seeing the healing mysteries at work in Eldest Son's work on the task at hand. His last psychotic break happened less than a year ago. Hope healing happens here.
Am going through similar process of cleaning out/rather mucking out a very sad and painful life, the tortured soul of a drug addict and alcoholic. My dear friend's brother at 56 died, so far from the silver platter, yet, the same type of toxic air amongst family members when in the same room. Lots of elephants that No One will speak of, denial springs eternal for survival.....among the weak.
Something else came to mind, I am the weak one, as my denial was a way to cope through the insanity of my own birth home...instead of facing down the crap, when I cleaned out my family home of 35 yrs on my own, it was a cathartic journey of going into all the 'closets' and emptying the house of elephants, the jungle of life with so many emotions. Perhaps that is why I as a 'weak person' go to my numbing place to escape from what I can't control or change....bi-polar.
I knew/ know my ex husband better than he knows himself (we were together 20 years). I wouldn't say that he "knows" me better than I know me...but I will admit that he knows "parts" of me. As do my kids.