On Borrowed Worth and Its Discontents

What do you call a type of person who has such a deep-seated belief of worthlessness that it's experienced as a truth instead of just another feeling?

No matter how good my days are—and I've had some really, really good, genuinely awesome days—and no matter how many beautiful reasons there are to be alive and to live, how many joyful days I'm blessed with...

Worthlessness is ever-present.

It has to be constantly fought. It doesn't disappear because today was beautiful. It doesn't care that I laughed, loved, or stood in absolute awe of something magnificent.

It's just sitting there, that grin of confidence, waiting for that next lapse in persistence.

What keeps that interesting to me is I know exactly where to find the feeling of worth.

I do it all the time.

I just look at the people.

These stupid, mean, beautiful, fallible, and so preciously fragile creatures just...out here like me, doing their best.

Fighting the same demons that I do—and some that I will, very gratefully, never have to grapple with.

Sometimes when you look around, in spaces where they have created something brand new for the world to consider...

The beauty is just so stunningly abundant that I can sit there and bask in it. Meditate on it. Extract every possible molecule of that feeling and let it soak into my being.

Borrow it.

But stay wary of forgetting it was never yours to keep.

If Death came to me one day—any day—and offered me the choice? And it was an actual choice that wasn't weighted with considering other people first?

The feelings of relief and gratitude I get from just imagining it happening...

Sometimes will even give me a peace I didn't have before.

One day it WILL be done.

Sometimes the fight to preserve myself falters, and I just can't seem to find the motivation or energy to pretend...to try and gain back my lost ground with pretense and smoke?

I think I let myself get sick.

I finally had my plan, safely and gently tucked within my palm, and so actively proceeded to ruin, neglect, or end every connection and accomplishment I'd meagerly gathered.

Let bills and credit cards go...student loans...car repossession.

I didn't, however, manage to lose this hateful one-bedroom apartment that holds so many old feelings and loves, the memory of—and then the passing of—my son, and a constant reminder that I have not given my kids the life they deserve.

They've never experienced their mom tucking them into each of their own rooms at night, knowing that Mom's off to work now helping save humanity from the dreadful and deadly Captain Negative Self Talk.

(Sorry. I had to do it. I'm stinking funny.)

You know, me being the parent, presenting, being the example of, and using supported data found in the world to present self-love to my kids in a way where the question of its validity is a rare occurrence and easily defeated by truth.

I didn't actually even know people like that existed, honestly—not until recently.

People who were raised gently and given that gift somehow.

The reality is that I'm more praying fervently that they'll see me as the example of what not to be instead of what they naturally aim for.

My chronically depressed mother was a great example for me to do so.

To rise up and show her that I learned from you, Mom—not turned into you.

Not perpetuating this broken, disgusting falseness as a family trait.

I stole that reality away from us.

God save my babies.

I found a cuddling website and joined because I was curious.

I was flooded with messages immediately, and applying for Pro was free.

When I was accepted, I tried it out because why not?

Jk.

I knew it came with a level of risk.

But I did quickly soak up all the idealism that I was helping people by giving them a basic human need that, in many cases, they're so touch-starved they can't remember the last time someone held them at all.

I couldn't tell you how long it took, but it wasn't long—constantly evading and avoiding sly attempts to grope me and turn it into sex every other session...smiling to your face as you're tenderizing the meat in your hands?

Thankfully I can't claim to have been able to stay self-deluded for very long.

Someone shared a forum with me soon after...posts from people who'd just the night before looked at you like maybe you were made of fairy dust...for just doing my best to be intentional. To choose to see and honor the beauty in the person first, and then do my best to show it to them.

...only then to see the experience reduced in the post because, in the end, it was transactional.

I was reduced then, by default.

Bam.

Can't undo it, babe.

I was officially a prostitute.

I actively blocked any and all feeling from that word altogether.

I was successful for months at denying my truth.

Then I did a big no-no and allowed myself to let down the walls guarding my heart from total annihilation.

Shortly after, I discovered that it was, again, the idea of me they loved.

What I could be.

My potential.

I can save this pathetic being.

There was minimal processing.

No time to prepare or avoid.

My body and mind lost control.

I cried and begged and screamed into the void as my eyes and body betrayed me.

I had to get out of my apartment and away, and I didn't have a single care for where or how.

I found and met a cool older couple.

They invited me over and showed me a deeper kindness than they had any right to, and I was grateful.

Then there was a bag on the table.

Then it was offered to me.

What I watched my older sister slowly fall in love with and die for through most of my growing up, before her body finally gave up and she didn't have to be sad or angry anymore.

I knew.

Me and meth were lovers way before I ever placed it to my lips and inhaled.

I chose to do that.

Uh oh.

That old accountability..

Full stop on any and all functional brain performance.

It's just a party drug, Lana.

You got this, dude.

You'll be strong enough to put it down tomorrow.

I got home and, alone, delved into it, distracting myself with anything and everything possible to keep myself busy or lost.

The next morning my kid saw me twitch and asked if I was okay.

The shock of finally thinking about how it might affect my children?

For the love of any and all...

Lana Mae.

What are you doing?

No, ma'am.

You got a problem.

You drop the bag now, though, and you're actually alone.

There will be no buffer for you.

I still chose myself in that moment.

And I pray that I stay humble when my daughter decides to show me that karma is relentless.

Midnight, I said.

By midnight on this third day I will pour it into the toilet and flush.

I didn't believe me, though.

Not really.

At 12:04, naturally past the deadline I'd set, I did, in fact, open the bag.

And I poured it all into the toilet.

Then I flushed. And watched it disappear.

Holy smokes, Batman.

I can safely say that while my title could still be unaccomplished, bottom-feeding prostitute,

I will never have to add meth addict or lost cause.

That's truly worth something.