Self-Denigration Is My Superpower

On negative voices and Pamela Anderson. New/Old Pema shit. Robley Wilson. Go Birds.

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Come aboard. — AJD

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Last week, two people I barely know told me I was too hard on myself. One person went as far as to say something like "some people actually respect you" in a way that was done with genuine sincerity mixed with concern and some annoyance.

I know what they mean — it's frustrating to carry this cumbersome bag of rocks I'm still lugging around despite what a beautiful life I have stretched out before me. I can tell myself, "Yes, you are not terrible," but that feels dicey, although not as much as telling myself, "I love you, and you are okay."

That feels wholly undeserved, and also, doesn't everyone feel deeply uncomfortable with the concept of loving yourself? I still maintain a healthy skepticism about anyone who can look at a mirror for longer than 15 seconds, especially someone who can hold eye contact and recite affirmations. At what point does staring into the mirror and loving yourself veer into narcissism? There is a margin between the two, and I'd like to know how thin mine is before I start telling myself how great I am after I brush my teeth.

Here's marked progress for me: I recognize that this insecurity and self-doubt happened long before adulthood, internet-hood, community college, or even the first day of kindergarten — this was something stuffed into me long before I had any idea it was happening. Believe me, I’m also annoyed by this unwelcome voice.

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After my Friday morning men's meeting, I had fellowship with my usual crew: Eddie and Cameron, who's back in town for good now, and Cory joined us, too. I drank coffee and offered my self-denigration quandary, not entirely looking for a solution but more of a declaration of sorts, an intimate check-in at the Beachwood Cafe. "Self-denigration is my superpower," I said, trying to be clever but also self-deprecating. Eddie said he was trying to be less self-deprecating since it is a form of self-denigration. I assume no one else has breakfast meetings like this.

Vegan burritos and french toast were served while we all shared about the type of negative voices we hear — the sounds, the context, the volume. I said the voice is usually mine, but the loudest is not. Cameron pressed me on who that voice was, and I said it was very pathetic, but an NPR reporter once irritated me, and I have never fully gotten over it.

I gave a brief synopsis: the reporter was fact-checking a story about Gawker, and after he was grilling me, he lazily ended the call with a half-hearted, "So what are you up to now?" At the time, I'd just had my first child with Julieanne (whom he knew and liked), and when I shared this happy news, he sounded deeply dismayed and disapproving. He quickly ended the phone call, and before he hung up, he said, "Take care of that baby!"

I knew his only frame of reference for me was the public one associated with that dumb trial. I bet he thought that since he was a serious reporter, he was very adept at assessing a person's character, and mine, in his opinion, was dreadful. He’d written about me several times, and, in his opinion, that dreadful person was never allowed to procreate or be loved by anyone. Otherwise, that would require completely reshaping his version of me, which he had presented to the world as fact. I was sure he thought — knew, even — I wasn't equipped to be a decent father, one who changed diapers or sang silly songs or whose heart was big enough and unselfish enough to care for a baby responsibly. He was a father — a good father, nobly equipped to nurture and love — and I was never going to be the type of father he was.

Today, right this minute, if I think about his tone for too long, it makes me positively murderous, even though after I tell this story, most people crack up and say, "That guy??? He's your tormentor???" And, okay, fair enough — it is a little ridiculous, even made more so by the fact that I'm reasonably sure he has never spent one minute thinking about this since it happened.

Cameron said he had voices like that, mostly ex-wives and girlfriends, but his Higher Power tends to intervene before it gets too noisy.

"How did his tone make you feel?"

I drank my coffee and stared into the almost empty cup.

"He made me feel small, incompetent — subhuman."

The conversation at the breakfast table shifted to movies — which of the nominated had we loved and which we did not. I had a short list I was lukewarm about, but the one I loved the most this year — "Challengers" —wasn't even nominated.

Cameron said "The Last Showgirl" with Pamela Anderson was at the top of his list and that she was incredible in it.

"Did I ever tell you my Pamela Anderson story?" I asked.

In 2007, I did some freelance work for the New York Post. One of my early assignments was talking to Pamela Anderson about her novel, "Star Struck," a paper-thin fictionalized love story about her and Tommy Lee.

We began the conversation about her book, but then we stopped talking about the book. She began to share her annoyance about how she was portrayed in the media but was not self-pitying, mostly defiant. Guards came down; my recorder clicked off. Then she asked about me, my own life, if I was married, had kids, and if I wanted to write books or do something else entirely. During our 45-minute interview, a familiarity and tenderness grew between us that felt built over a lifetime.

Since she was calling me from her cell while driving through the winding, wind-swept roads of Laurel Canyon, the line kept dropping out — but she called back several times, apologizing and urging me to continue. And the final time she called back, she said, 'Hey, Age. It's me.'

My best friends in high school used to call me ‘Age’, and some people have called me that here and there but not enough in the 30 years since high school. ‘Age’ always injects me with a genuine comfort and trust that is absent most days. And the way Pamela Anderson said it still rings in my heart.

"I have never forgotten how lovely she was," I said. Cameron smiled at me.

"I think from here on out, maybe you should make Pamela Anderson the voice in your head as much as you can."

My mind was blown. I ordered more coffee. — AJD

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