Are you satisfied with who you are?
The spectrum from self-delight to self-affright doesn’t correlate with intellect or success. Some brilliant, high achievers loathe themselves and some human duds are tickled pink. Some successful folks pat themselves on the back – a contortion – while plenty of sadsacks, like Dickens’ Mr. Micawber, seem unfazed by failure.
Most of my life I rebuked myself. I didn’t like my looks, shyness, unmanliness or lack of interest in my classmates’ games. I longed to be one of the boys – and the conversation shifted at my approach. The rhyming propensities of my surname seemed a special burden. Polite to teachers and a good student, I became, naturally enough, Tuck the Suck – fuck!
From toddlerdom, I detected in myself twins who loathed each other. There was good boy Carll who sought to please grown-ups and his dark detractor who strove to defy, subvert, invent: the suburban smoothie in his tennis whites and a flailing poet. Lucky for me, good boy Carll either predeceased his twin or, exhausted, accepted treaty terms. However it happened, they get along fine now, like those bitter rivals, John Adams and Thomas Jefferson, after both had retired from the public stage.
Many the chirpy self-help book detailing surefire steps to self-embrace. I’m glad my two selves didn’t get along because their antagonism educated and motivated both. No truth was ever sure: certainty was a redoubt from doubt. While my selves are buddies these days, their debates persist.
The self-dissatisfied may not discuss their disgust even with themselves; it hurts too much. Dog-pal Henry views humans with astonishment: being one, he can’t understand why one wouldn’t love oneself. He also has no ambition, which spares him a peck of woes.
That my rival selves have ceased reviling each other does not equal self-satisfaction. On the contrary – let me always be an egregious underperformer! Now, though, the two forgive each other their confusion. Life is hard to get right. Whatever I’m doing, I’m not doing other things more beneficial. I read better writers and kick myself – why not I!
Our consumer culture dangles satisfaction – contentment – happiness as a plausible goal. If you’re uncomfortable in your skin, something’s wrong. The opposite is better guidance. Be dissatisfied, restive, striving. Be a creator, to hell with creature comforts. Be down on yourself so you lift yourself up. Glower at your inadequacy, your very own hanging judge.
Dissatisfaction is the root from which Morality blooms. From the General Confession of my boyhood:
Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedAlmighty and most merciful Father;We have erred, and strayed from thy ways like lost sheep.We have followed too much the devices and desires of our own hearts.We have offended against thy holy laws.We have left undone those things which we ought to have done;And we have done those things which we ought not to have done;And there is no health in us.But thou, O Lord, have mercy upon us, miserable offenders.
If I’ve pasted these words in this space before, it’s because I recite them to myself daily. Be more, better! Good is not good enough! Feel your inadequacy. Pride is not only hideous but idiocy.
My parents never congratulated me. I blame them for that. Only love makes one feel lovable. On the other hand, I bless them for their insatiable expectations. I’m smug, you might say, about not being smug. This keeps me eager, honed, even frantic for dawn, to return to the fray and fight.
I’m happy I’m unhappy. “He that thinks himself perfect,” said Dr. Johnson, who never stopped lacerating himself, “has no desire of improvement.”