THE KID WHO JUST WANTED TO BE LIKED

When I was a kid, I never felt well-liked or as though I belonged anywhere.

I felt picked on, ostracized, lonely, different and awkward. Growing up in an abusive household certainly didn’t do much for my self-esteem either.

Then I discovered booze and drugs.

They helped me clear some of those hurdles. I desperately wanted to fit in and be part of something. Before drinking, if people picked on or bullied me, I would continue going back for more rather than picking myself up and moving on.

As strange as it sounds today, drinking gave me the confidence to move away from some of the abusive and mean people who didn’t respect me. As I drank more, I also began thinking for myself and taking chances.

I made new friends. I found people who enjoyed my company, and I enjoyed theirs. I began asking girls out—although I would still freeze whenever it came to the ones I really liked.

Underneath that liquid confidence, I still didn’t feel worthy.

That low self-esteem remained with me for many years.

On the outside, I eventually became indignant about whether people liked me.

“I don’t give a shit if they like me.”

“Fuck ’em if they don’t.”

Inside, however, I was still that frightened little boy looking for approval and hoping everyone would be his friend.

It bothered me when someone didn’t like me—or when I merely perceived that they didn’t. Sometimes the entire problem existed only inside my head.

After high school, I attended a party with friends. Many of the people there were people I believed had never cared for me. I hadn’t spoken much with them in school, but with some liquid courage, I finally approached one of the guys.

“What is it about me that you don’t like? I never understood why you guys didn’t like me.”

To my surprise, he admitted that I wasn’t a bad guy once he got to know me.

He said he had been a jerk.

That was a turning point for me. Even though I was still drinking and drugging, I experienced some growth. His answer helped me understand that maybe everything wasn’t wrong with me.

Of course, I eventually took that realization to the opposite extreme.

If I thought you didn’t like me, I simply ignored you. Instead of feeling inferior to everyone, I decided I was better than most of them.

The typical egomaniac with an inferiority complex. 🤣

The truth is, I still don’t like it when someone doesn’t like me.

It doesn’t consume me today, and I don’t necessarily consider it some enormous character defect. It bothers me briefly, and then I move on.

It used to torment me.

I would dwell on it and lose sleep because I couldn’t understand that not everyone was going to like me—and that it was perfectly okay.

I’m not sure exactly when that truth finally settled into my brain.

I know there were several occasions in AA when I sensed tension between myself and someone else. If I cared about that person or wanted the friendship, I would discuss it with my sponsor approximately one hundred times.

Eventually, I might actually speak directly to the person.

Nicely, even. 🤣

I no longer had to pretend that I didn’t care. I could admit that something bothered me without allowing it to control me.

I’ve also had people confront me and ask whether I liked them. That always felt strangely uncomfortable because, generally speaking, I like almost everyone.

That doesn’t mean I want to become best friends with most people, but I genuinely enjoy talking with them.

Have I destroyed relationships with misguided anger and rage?

Absolutely.

As much as I dislike admitting it, I’m sure my divorce had something to do with my behavior as well as my ex-wife’s. She became an active drug addict and bulimic, so there was certainly plenty happening on her side.

But I wasn’t a saint.

Looking back, I can accept some responsibility.

I’m not taking most of it. Hell, I’m fortunate to have reached ten percent.

Progress, not perfection. 🤣

That period was brutal. I was terrified that I would lose my children. I was hurt and angry because my wife no longer loved me, especially after everything we had gone through with rehabs and psychiatric wards.

At first, I was stunned.

Talk about a blow to the ego.

That full story is for another time, but I can honestly say I did my best under terrible circumstances. Staying sober carried me through it in a relatively healthy way.

That doesn’t mean it went well.

It didn’t.

One thing I did constantly was try to convince everyone that the divorce wasn’t my fault.

Naturally, I found plenty of people willing to agree with me. 😁

After nearly 39 years without a drink, I’m still not entirely sure how to define emotional sobriety.

For me, perhaps it is my general well-being and my attitude toward the other human beings sharing this planet with me.

It is the ability to step back from a difficult situation without flying off the handle like a toddler.

It is the ability to stand up for myself when necessary and keep my mouth shut when that is the wiser choice.

It is admitting that I need help and understanding that I am not the knower of all things.

I’m more than happy about that one.

Emotional sobriety may also mean accepting that someone doesn’t like me without losing sleep over it.

Hell, I have two brothers who disowned me, and I sleep great.

I have a healthy outlook on life today. I have a healthy relationship—not a perfect one, not textbook or television-worthy—but one that I believe works for both of us exactly as it is supposed to.

I can sometimes accept criticism without immediately feeling terrible about myself.

I said sometimes.

When my wife, Kris, is critical of me, it still stings. I don’t particularly like that feeling, although I suppose none of us enjoys being criticized.

Today I can accept that I am human and accept everything that comes with being human.

I’m also an alcoholic with alcoholic attitudes and tendencies. Most of the time, I believe I manage all of it reasonably well.

I am certainly no saint.

I will still occasionally fly off the handle. I will gossip. I will feel bad when someone dislikes me or accuses me of something that makes absolutely no sense.

Social media makes it incredibly easy to find those people.

A little too easy.

Social media can be a powerful tool for staying connected. It can also be an extremely powerful way to make yourself feel like total shit.

I avoid getting into pissing matches with strangers who disagree with me online. I’ve learned that expending energy on those arguments is useless. Nobody changes their mind, and I walk away angry and aggravated.

I enjoy my peace and serenity too much today.

That doesn’t mean I’m opposed to a good argument or disagreement. Occasionally, I still enjoy one.

But for the most part, I avoid them like the plague.

They aren’t worth my time or peace of mind.

Maybe emotional sobriety isn’t reaching a point where I genuinely don’t care what anyone thinks.

Maybe it is admitting that I do care—without becoming a hostage to their opinion.

Someone can misunderstand me.

Someone can criticize me.

Someone can decide that I’m not their cup of tea.

I may not enjoy it, but I can stay in my own skin.

The frightened little boy inside me no longer has to beg for approval, and the indignant man standing guard no longer has to scream, “Fuck ’em.”

Both of them can finally sit quietly in the same room.

I don’t need everyone to like me.

Today, I like myself enough.

soberthroughtheyears.com

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