Lack of male role models, abusive childhood, subsequent self hatred.

[Denninmi]

Guys, I would like your thoughts on something. This post really would be better in the MH Support forum, EXCEPT, I guess I am looking very specifically on thoughts about the link between the lack of an appropriate father figure as a kid and the type of self-image and self-esteem that causes a man to have as an adult. I am desperately trying to "put the puzzle pieces together" and understand something about myself, which is why I have this utterly horrible self-image which doesn't at all confirm with objective reality. Obviously, my father really destroyed my self-esteem, but to the extremes I take it to? All of this revolves around concepts of masculinity in some weird way.

I know, this is a strange request, strange post, but I really need perspectives and help with this, it is a big piece of the puzzle of what I have been going through for the last year, which has been really rough on me, and I am trying to "fix it" in every way possible.

If anyone can help me understand this, a most heartfelt thanks.

This is something that happened a couple of nights ago, and this is the narrative of it I shared with my therapist yesterday. Kind of graphic, but we're all adults here:

I got really triggered last night and lost it, not so much a fearful memory but a very sad one. I was doing my workout with my PT. They have an area outside behind the club set up for their boot camp program, and we go out there as much as possible, it's just the two of us, a lot nicer than inside where it's always crowded at night. So, I was kind of struggling last night to get through this thing because I still have a pretty bad cold, fever, and I could tell I was pretty weak. Towards the end, I was really struggling to do vertical rows with 35lb-ers, and I had to drop them and quit mid-set. So, I sat down and grabbed my water, and said something like "sorry I'm so weak". My PT looks at me and says something to the effect of " you're not weak, you're awesome. You're one of the strongest guys I know, you always give me 100% no matter what. And, you're my favorite client because of that, I have clients who ***** and moan that it's too hard, they won't push and then they wonder why they don't see results. You never complain, so stop being so hard on yourself."

So, really nice compliment. Genuine, sincerely, heartfelt.

What do I do? - I start crying.

It was triggering on three levels. The biggest thing, which got me going, was the immediate thought that came into my mind: "Where in the Fuck where you when I was 7?" Because for whatever reason, I flashed back to one of my single most painful memories, which is ironic based on what it is, because this hurt me more, still festers more as a psychological wound, than all of the memories of the violent moments growing up where he was threatening us. When I was 7, 2nd grade, when spring came and baseball season started, it was "the" thing at school on the playground during recess. Pretty much all of the boys had mitts and balls, and would throw and catch, etc. I guess probably quite a few were in Little League or something. Anyway, I desperately wanted to do that, and I remember kind of pleading to get mitt and ball. So, I came home from school this one afternoon, kind of hazy milky blue white sky with cirrus clouds and weak sunshine, kind of coolish, like maybe 60, early spring, like say mid-April, I remember there were a lot of crocus blooming. My mom gives me a real mitt and a softball. I was thrilled. So, I remember fooling around with it a little while. i got home from school a little after 4. He always got home from work about 5:30. when he got home, dinner had to be ready right at 6:00. So, at dinner I guess I got brave, I asked him to teach me how to throw and catch. After dinner, I always had to clear the table and help by drying dishes, and I was really excited. He was weird, like always, irritable, distant.

So, I kind of whined and pleaded, and my mother kind of ordered him - it was weird, he wanted to control everything of significance, but he would do trivial things if she pushed it - and he did it. Got up, we went out in the back yard, I had my glove and the ball, I threw it to him, poorly, he chased it and threw it back, I of course didn't catch it, I got it, pitched it back, he threw it back to me, turned around, didn't say a word, and went back into the house. And pulled the bedroom curtains. And I just stood there and probably moped a while, fooled around with the ball. When I went in, I knew exactly what I would find, Freakshow sitting on the sofa staring into space with his bra, panties, silk stockings, garter belts, and silky negligée/robe thingy. A very well-padded bra I should add, he liked the Dolly Parton/Pamela Anderson look.

So, that was the total extent of being taught the game of baseball. Not that I'm bitter about it or anything (yeah, not much).

I started crying because I desperately needed a real father in my life, someone like my PT who would have told me how great I could be with effort and time, not this Freudian nightmare who constantly ran me down, called me names like the "f" word, told me I was garbage and would never amount to anything. First trigger, lack of a real father figure. Second trigger, being complimented as opposed to being run down.

For context with this next part, keep in mind that my father constantly belittled, tormented, denigrated me, especially about anything having to do with masculinity. Pure projection on his part, but it took its toll on me in a major way, hence how I feel about myself.

Third trigger was internal. Of course I can't take compliments. How could I be strong or awesome or his favorite client? Because I am the scum of the earth, worse than any rapist or murderer or pedophile, and what they really should do is take me down to the bottom of that steep hill behind the club and put a bullet through my brain because I don't deserve to live I'm such a vile stain on humanity. Like one of those scenes they show on news or documentaries about how they execute the condemned in China, hands tied behind the back, blindfolded, kneeling, and the uniformed executioner puts a pistol to the back of the guy's head, fires, and the guy goes down.

I don't know what my crime is, I feel like I'm an innocent man, a good guy, but in my mind I know what my punishment should be. Which kind of scares me, I have always thought on some level I would ultimately snap and take myself out. I still feel that way, in fact, at some point I just won't be able to take the pain any more and I'll do it. That scares me. And, I literally came seconds away from it last year at my low point. And it's always a gun, I never think about something clean like Carbon monoxide, gotta be a gun. The only time I thought of another method was a while last year when the concept of driving into concrete or a big tree at 90 mph was appealing.

And I SO DON'T WANT THAT. Hence the psychiatrists and therapist and Prozac and various doctors and trainers and dietician and posting on Internet support sites and new wardrobe and cycling and running and so on and so forth.