My Gift: Acceptance

Note: this is one of the essays I might have submitted for Gifts, had I written for it (though this story, unlike those in the book, is more about me than Girly Girl). I could also have written an essay about unconditional love, one about courage, one about persistence, one about patience, etc., but other women wrote those for me.

Like most American women (maybe most women, period), I struggle with acceptance and self worth. I’ve never felt I belonged anywhere, and I have trouble accepting myself as I am.

I even felt a bit like an outsider in my family of origin*, which is sort of ironic since it was my little sister who was olive-skinned and brown eyed in a group of blue-eyed blonds. My older sisters and I even told her she was adopted, and she still felt more a part of the family than I did. (Yes. It was a dirty trick. We were pretty horrible to her, and yet, she still speaks to us and seems to even love us anyway. She’s a saint in that way.)

Nor do I think of myself as someone valuable (though this, too, is changing).

See, I wasn’t what I was supposed to be. From the day my mother brought me home from the hospital, I was a disappointment to her. With my older sisters, she went back to work six weeks after the birth, putting her husband through school. Someone else cuddled and rocked and sang to her babies. But with me, her husband was working a real job; she was finally a stay-at-home mom, and she looked forward to hours of delicious cuddling in a rocking chair in the Arizona sunshine.

I wanted nothing to do with that! I was one of those babies who preferred to be left alone, thank you very much. Abandon me on a blanket on the floor, I could play happily for hours. Pick me up, I cried. I realize now, after having Girly Girl, that I had (and still have) sensory issues. Sensory messages come into my brain more strongly than normal, so I am easily overwhelmed by too much stimulation. But nobody knew about sensory issues in 1960. All my mother knew was that I rejected her, and it broke her heart.

Not to mention, I didn’t breastfeed very well. I was her first (and only) hospital-managed birth. She’d had both of my older sisters at home, but when they moved to Arizona, she couldn’t find a doctor willing to attend her at home. So she tried the hospital route, painkillers and all, and I was sluggish and slow to nurse.**

So, yeah. My poor, young mother’s hopes (including the dream of giving her husband the much-longed-for son) were dashed. I just didn’t follow instructions very well.

Then I grew up, and still didn’t take instruction well. She tried to raise me like she’d been raised (with a very strict, religious underpinning), but I questioned everything. In despair, she asked (more than once), “Why do you always ask why? I never asked my father why!”

Even worse, I am a Highly Sensitive Person (a la Elaine Aron), though I didn’t know the label until recently. And we don’t fit into the Midwestern, German-influenced culture of pragmatic sensibility.

For one thing, I was extremely emotional–something my father considers almost alien. Mom called me her “Very Girl,” always with affection, because whatever I felt, I felt to extremes. If I was sad, I was very sad. If I was happy, very happy.

Others were less tolerant, and I got the message from everywhere, “You are too much!” Too inquisitive, too talkative, too emotional, too silly, too absorbed in your books, too introspective … too, too, TOO! And especially, from everyone, “Katrina, you are too sensitive!”

I tried to be what they (not just my parents but everyone) seemed to want, but I wasn’t very good at it. My brain just isn’t wired that way. Then I tried very hard to convince the people around me that these things they called “TOO much!” were the flip side of characteristics they really valued in me. Yes, when I’m angry, I’m livid. But when I’m happy, I’m exuberant, and you seem to like that!

Still, the fact remains, I’ve never fit in. I’ve rarely felt fully accepted, and I’ve struggled to accept myself. Sometimes I feel like a little voice lost in the din, trying to shout but only whispering, “I am worth something! I’m worth a lot, just like I am!”

But when I look at my daughter, I see my own value.

Oh, you’re probably thinking how awful it is that I find my value by looking at someone else and thinking, “Well, at least I’m worth more than that person.”

But that isn’t it at all. I look at my daughter, this exquisite creature 92 percent of parents would have thrown away, and I know they are wrong. I know how infinitely valuable she is. She is a unique and fascinating person, with so much to offer the world. She belongs here. She is central to our family, and if we lost her, we would be more defined by the loss than by those of us who remained.

I see the “value” our society puts on my daughter, and I see, oh so clearly, how mistaken that value is.

And then I understand society was wrong about me too. Our culture has trouble seeing the value in people who are different, but it is there nonetheless. She’s OK; I’m OK.

No. She’s fabulous! So am I.

Just look at her!

*This is a lot less true than it used to be. My mother is one of my best friends now, and my sisters are three more. The older I get, the more I cherish these relationships. And I think they cherish me too, for the very qualities that drove them nuts when I was a child/teen. But then, I’m a lot easier to live with when you don’t have to live with me!

**My little sister was also born in a hospital, but Mom refused the drugs. Not to mention, she didn’t have time for them! She barely made it to a delivery room, and if I remember correctly, the doctor didn’t make it in time.

ETA: If you see Google Ads at the top of this post, please know I did not request them and do not want them. Please do not encourage the monster by clicking on the ads, no matter how badly you may suffer from Irritable Bowel Syndrome. And thanks for popping in! The good news, they tell me, is that if you return regularly, the ads magically disappear.

Tags: Gifts