Self-Esteem: How Low Can You Go?

Barbara: I met the most lovely young woman the other night. She was stunningly beautiful, but in such a natural way it seemed she never even thought about it: no makeup, long loose hair down to her butt, and comfortable, simple, and as a result sexy clothes and jewelry. But also all the fixings of a real beauty: excellent bone structure, perfect olive skin, and bright intelligent eyes. You coulda knocked me over with a sable makeup brush when she announced a few glasses of wine into the evening that she suffered terribly from low self-esteem.

And as the rest of us women also began to consider self-esteem that night it became clear—and maybe obvious—that this seems to be a universal issue for we women of the first world problems. But why? I know I ask “why” a lot—I’m like that annoying 3-year-old kid who’s just learned the word. But again, it just niggles, doesn’t it? Whhhhhyyyyy?

Okay, so why does it matter that there are more beautiful women out there, thinner ones, or smarter ones? Why do we need to measure ourselves against them—and when we do, why do we consider the comparatives as “shortcomings” and not “differences”? When I was younger, I was always drawn to bitches—and why? Because they made me feel absolutely sure of my place as someone dumber, less sophisticated, and less capable. And mostly because I deemed it so, not because that’s what they out-and-out said to me. Did that sense of my being less-than invade my every waking moment? Not consciously, but I know it manifested in all kinds of ways. I always used to worry that my husband would find someone more attractive and then leave me, devastating my very being. It never occurred to me that if our marriage were to end, it would be because we’d fallen out of love and couldn’t find our way back, and not because of some random, slight, and natural observation that there were, oh my god, yes, some women prettier and smarter than I (again, those bitches I was “attracted to” were also the ones I was most sure would be my marriage-nemeses: naturally Phil would leave me for the opposite of me, right? Naturally I would want them in my life.).

Image (yup, that's me) by Michele.

The thing is, we don’t make our problems better by sassing ourselves and preparing for the worst (i.e.: loss of love). No, that’s how we make our problems. That’s right. We. Make. Our. Problems.

That beauty I met the other night, her self-esteem issues attracted the worst kinds of assholes. And I’m gonna guess that if she were lucky enough to meet Mr. Right, she might actually drive him away by being more wrapped up in how “horrible” she is than in how wonderful he is. I wanted to take her in my arms and tell her how amazing she is and how much she deserves the very best (okay, I did tell her all that, short of taking her in my arms). But the truth is, she is surrounded by numerous people who trumpet her wondrousness. She’s not one of those people who’s alone with no one to love her. But it didn't seem to make a difference to her love of self. In other words, despite every apparent gift and advantage, there are still some issues that have such insidious power … they manage to trump all else.

Hello, low self-esteem. Now fuck off.

I want us to fight back. I want us to tell ourselves how amazing we are. I mean, what have we got to lose? That would be one (more) voice on the planet that’s got it right. And don’t worry about getting all hoity on conceit—conceit has its roots in other problems, namely lack of compassion and dearth of awareness. No, no, self-love is something beautiful and generous and expansive. It swells up your heart and gives it more space to love other people.

I begged that young woman to tell herself every morning how amazing she is until she maybe finally believed it, and suddenly one of our fellow diners shared her story with us: in order to land her dream job, she spent every morning looking at her reflection in the mirror and telling herself she was great and smart and the best one for the job. And you know what? She felt so relaxed and confident by the time she got to her interview that she nailed it. And you know what else? Cutest, sweetest, least conceited person I ever met.

By not looking into that distorted mirror anymore, we free ourselves up to really look outward and see the wonderful world.

Deb: Beautifully said, Barb. This subject continues to amaze and shock me. Not only from the point of view of my own insecurities, but from those whom I deem wonderful and “worthy” of self-love.

Lately when I let thoughts of self-doubt and insecurity take up space in my brain, I say out loud, “Enough. Stop this, poison thought. Get out of my head.” If I do not say it out loud, for some reason it looms large in my psyche all day. So I totally get why the cute sweet gal did that. It works! And some days/weeks I don’t say it once and some days I say it ten times. I think my brain is shocked when I say it and it lays off.

My biggest surprise of late, much like the beautiful insecure stranger you met, was when I read Diane Keaton’s book. Oh my God, she is so insecure. I mean, soooooo insecure. And I thought, Really? YOU are Diane Friggin Keaton! But then I thought, “Yeah, but we see her from the outside and she sees herself from the in.”


Barbara: And here's another look at one of the best expressions of confident self-nurturing. Which, with its amazing spirit, made us all stop and watch and cheer.

Sunshine Sketches: Sunday February 12th, 8PM on CBC

Deb: Many projects come and go. Some are fun, some are successful, some are a nightmare, and some are special.

Sunshine Sketches Of A Little Town is special.

If you are Canadian, this is a must-see as it is a proud part of our heritage. If you are not, please consider watching as it is great family viewing.  Colin and I have seen a copy and it is delightful, funny, and surprising.

Colin and Deb on set.

Sunshine Sketches was written by Stephen Leacock in 1912. Mr. Leacock  was a humourist and writer of fiction who was born in Hampshire, England in 1869. He came to Canada with his family at the age of six and was educated among other schools at the prestigious Upper Canada College in Toronto and the University of Chicago where he received a doctorate in political science and political economy. He soon became disillusioned with politics (smart lad) and turned to writing, with fiction and humour a specialty. He started out his literary career writing short stories that were published in magazines in Canada and the U.S. and became very popular all over the world. Around 1911 it was said that more people had heard of Stephen Leacock than had heard of Canada. Still true today!!!  :-)

Between 1915 and 1925, he was the most popular humourist in the world.

Groucho Marx and Jack Benny were among his biggest fans. He was a huge influence on them when they were young vaudevillians and fifty years after first reading him they still considered him one of their favourite comic writers.

Sunshine Sketches was shot in the thinly-disguised town of Mariposa, a small town in Ontario that Leacock was all too familiar with. The story is based on fact and fiction or, I should say, fact and embellishment.

This production is a virtual who’s who of Canadian talent, with the great Gordon Pinsent at the helm. We are proud of it and wanted to share. Please consider spending some time with us in this charming little town. 

Barbara: I saw the trailer for this just the other night and it looks fabulous! Beautifully shot and with some great stars (including our dear Deb and Colin). I’m so glad you remembered to remind us, Deb—because TV shows, especially Canadian ones, tend to fall through the cracks. I really want to catch this one!

We couldn’t get the trailer to embed here, but if you go to this link, you can see a really cute (and not too long) making-of doc.

The Constitution Shuffle: The Musical

Deb: I think this about covers it. Yep.

 

  "Prop 8 - The Musical" starring Jack Black, Allison Janney, John C. Reilly, Marc Shaiman, and many more...  - Americablog

Mooning

Deb: Full moon tonight and I already feel it, although it is only 4pm. An undercurrent of palpitation in my heart, a building spark of excitement. I have always been besotted with its round cratered self. The Man on the Moon was my first boyfriend, my between boyfriend, my rebound boyfriend, my steady boyfriend.

Painting in my home by Rob Gonsalves

Many people are affected by the moon: “that monthly changes in its circled orb”. Maybe that’s why I love it. Just like a woman, the moon reserves the right to change its mind. It is said that Cancerians like me are most affected by its opalescent wiles.

One of my earliest memories as a tot is looking at the moon in all its pale glory. Like most children I never had problems sleeping. I would go to bed at night and wake up to the morning light. Except when it was a full moon. All my life I have awoken to its gentle luminous nudge. I always figured that this was because the moon was lonely. I surmised that it would go around gently waking like-minded souls so they could bask in its golden glow. Can you imagine what Moon feels like when it puts on its shining grinning spectacle only to have people fall asleep? Trust me, I’ve performed in shows like that!

Painting in our home: The Bedroom by Deloss McGraw

I guess that’s why I can never leave Moon wanting. Not that I have a choice, mind. Because the moon calls on me. I would like to think it’s just me because I am covetous of the Moon, but I know there are others.

But that’s okay because when I am up on a full moon night, gazing skyward towards its opaque teariness, I always feel supported in my quiet gaze.

Maybe that is why I am such a space enthusiast. When the “Eagle” landed on the moon, I could not breath. When Neil Armstrong took his first step I was weightless with fulfillment.

My sketch-a-day sketchbook: the moon over The Harmony Hotel in Costa Rica

If I ever get the chance to go to the moon, I will take it. There is no way on Moon that it could disappoint!

The moon makes me feel whole. I feel like I belong to Moon and Moon 

belongs to me. I have always felt this way as far back as I can remember.  The moon does not seem empty, bleak, or lifeless to me. The opposite rather.

The moon would be my ultimate quiet place. My email would be out of range and I could get a lot of reading done despite the fact that I am a very slow reader.

But would I arrive on Moon and instantly become besotted with Earth? I don’t know. In the meantime, I moon.

I also know that this is why I love cheese.

My sketch-a-day sketchbook: last night's moon

Barbara: Phil and I were driving back from Costco at dusk last night and the full moon had just started to rise in the east, climbing up through the Toronto skyline, a huge, yellow disc just peering down at us—almost a portal it looked so huge. It looked impossibly close, as if it had fallen off its orbit or something. We marveled at it, eyes barely on the road ahead. And then Phil observed, “Why does our moon not have a name? All the other moons have names, but ours is just ‘moon’.”

And it’s always been thus. We wax poetic of moons in literature and examine them in detail in science, but our moon is always The Moon. Interesting!

PS I am also a moon girl, a Cancer and a feeler-of-moon-waves and dreamer-of-moon-dust. Thanks for the lovely ode, Deb.

Last night's moon tangled in the trees of our backyard

Literal Videos

Barbara: Since we were talking dreams yesterday—and we can keep it up, so keep posting comments over there—I thought it might be fun (and funny) to go the other way today and be literally literal. This made me laugh out loud.

Dream A Little Dream With Me

Barbara: Do you like to talk dreams? Because lately a friend keeps asking me to pay attention to them—out of curiosity, but also out of interest as to what they might dredge up—and it made me realize that I haven’t thought about my dreams in a long while.

(Costa Rica: photo by Phil)

I’m not one to believe that our dreams can predict our future or the future or any aspect of it (although I do believe that there is a certain kind of person for whom this might be true). But I do think that dreams are manifestations of our questions or concerns or stresses or even joys.

In the morning when I wake, I hardly ever remember my dreams. It was only several years ago when I was doing some research and was encouraged to really try and remember them that I made a concerted effort to recall details as soon as I woke up. And it worked! Suddenly I could see the strange places I’d been in my dreams that were kinda like familiar places in real life but then not. I began to write the details down in a journal that I kept beside my bed, and that process helped me remember the dreams with even greater clarity. This ritual was so effective that to this day I remember dreams I had during that period. (Okay, there was this one where I’m an amphibian creature crawling around a vividly verdant rainforest floor but I’m also looking at my creature-self from above, way up high from the lush trees, also trying to crane my eyes over the tree-line to the blue sky beyond it, when suddenly my amphibian self says, very clearly over the rainforest whoooosh, “What you’re looking for is not up there. It’s down here on the ground.” Even though it was my dream, I still think that’s a cool, apt life-reminder for any of us, no?)

(Costa Rica: photo by Phil)

Anyway, the cataloguing-dreams thing was just an exercise and pretty soon I dropped the habit and began again to jump out of bed as soon as I woke to hit the ground running. Dreams went back to being what they’d been before, these distant, vague, sometimes unsettling, sometimes blank impressions … and nothing more. 

So I decided to heed my friend’s recent advice and from now on spend a few moments every morning trying to remember my dreams. At first it was frustrating. I couldn’t remember a thing. And what’s worse, I could feel the memory of the dream zinging away from my mind’s-eye like a yo-yo, now here, now gone up from whence it came. But I realized that if I really worked to grab the memory back before it was too far flung(!), the details would rack into focus and I could examine it, turning it first one way and then the other until it made some kind of coherent sense. Now I can tell you with complete confidence that each of my dreams (much like the amphibian dream) has featured me looking for something. But in an intent, calm, and specific way. Either I’m asking people questions, or I’m searching my house (but not my house, rather that weird, dreamly version of it), or I’m off in some distant land, exploring and discovering it. Or—like in last night’s dream—I’m either a newly minted police officer or an actor learning to be one, and I’m taking all these notes and being super anal and asking all these questions about how the sleuthing should be done but also giving my (unsolicited) opinion when I think the sleuthing could be more effective (sadly, this is so me, sigh).

The thing is, I don’t know what I’m searching for in essence through all these dreams, but it does make sense to me that this is the conundrum I’d take into my REM: what is it? what is next? where is it all leading? what will I find? will I know what to do with it when I find it?

There’s a really weird side-note to all this: the same friend who started this interesting dream-quest also reminded me about that pen I lost all those years ago—and she challenged me to be open to finding it. So I’m lying in bed this morning, freshly awake, remembering that police-slash-actor-training dream in all its strange detail and suddenly my thoughts go to that errant pen, out of nowhere. And I get this deeply aware feeling that I know where it is. And it’s an option I’d long ago forgotten. I see it with another person. A person who said they didn’t have it way back then. As I said, an option I looked into and then put aside in favour of searching high and low in my own home. I’m not saying I believe it was stolen, I’m saying I just suddenly felt it was gone to this other, unreachable place. A real pen’s real whereabouts … or a metaphor for something else?

Are dreams speaking to us from some place we don’t ever tap into in waking life, or are they simply a wild kind of movie-version of what we already know? Is it the truth … or is it all just a dream?

Deb: Fascinating and timely subject, Barb—for me too. I am finding of late the insomnia seems to be the order of the day for me. Or I should say, order of the night. 3am to 6am to be specific. My feeling around this is that my dreams and wakefulness are a manifestation of that which I cannot face.

Although my day is filled with positive active movement regards the changes in my Mom and Dad’s life, my dreams are filled with doubt and self-judgment. When I wake up sometimes it is all I can do to shake them. But shake them I do. I know these images and feelings are the part of me that wants to plant the seed of self-doubt. And I guess if I had to choose, I’d take them during sleep rather than during a waking moment, which might affect my life or someone else’s life. So, yeah, I think the dreams are what we don’t and won’t tap into. I also think they are daring adventures that an unused part of our brain’s spirit wants to go on. And if we won’t go willingly, it takes us regardless.

You have inspired me to the dream journal, Barb. I have a splendid one that my husband bought me in Italy. A lovely brown leather deal with the moon and stars stitched on the cover. I will wait till this period of my life is settled and then I will start recording in it, not my dreams but the images and feelings provoked as a result of them. It’s pointless to do it right now though, as I know all too well which part of my brain this oddness and fear is coming from—and why. But soon, I will crack it open. Look out, brain, here I come. 

Debra-Debbie-Deb

Deb: As I wind my way through life, changing, adapting, and reinventing myself, my name has come along for the ride.

What’s in a name, you might ask?

For me? My name game reflects and calls up various stages of my life.

I was born Debra Anne McGrath. My parents loved the name and chose to give me the simplest version—not Deborah, not Debrah, but Debra.

Ironically throughout my life, not one single solitary person has spelled it the simple way that my parents thoughtfully intended. Somehow that amuses me. Did these people maybe perceive me as more complex than I am? I will say yes. After all, I am writing this.

My name when I started school in Grade One was Debra. My teachers introduced me as Debra to the class and by the time the bell rang for our first recess I was Debbie to all who knew me. And I didn’t fight it. Even at that young age, I understood it. Debbie suited me. I was Debbie. Debbie Anne—perky, outgoing, full of beans! Debbie was my style and it attached itself to me right through Grade Thirteen.

I will admit with a slightly red face that there was one misguided period around Grade Four when I announced to the schoolyard at large that I would only answer to “Gidget”. (reddening) It didn’t take. Unless you include my sad attempts at referring to my “Gidget self” in the third person. (Burning red)

I should also say at this point that people throughout my life constantly tell me that I look like Debbie Reynolds. I even won a Debbie Reynolds lookalike contest at a Toronto City Hall Canada Day event. In fairness it wasn’t a Debbie Reynolds’s lookalike contest, it was a general lookalike contest. But I was picked out by one of the judges as a Debbie Reynolds’s lookalike. There were lots of other lookalikes—Burt Reynolds, John Travolta, Jimmy Walker, and Linda Evans. But I won and my prize was a television. I was thrilled. And that win confirmed my Debbieness.

Me at my Debbie Reynoldest

When I got to college and desperately needed to be taken seriously, I decided to adopt my given name, Debra. After all, the other girls in my acting class seemed exotic and mysterious. The most colourful and exciting of these girls had hairy armpits and legs. I was so envious of them. How bold of them how “I am woman hear me roar” of them. I was determined to shed my suburban Debbie and grow the hair under my arms and legs, but the patchy results and my Mother’s voice ringing in my ears put a stop to my attempt at earthy goodness.

So Debra was re-born. I was now Debra McGrath. Dropped the Anne. After all, this was way before the Tiffani Amber Thiessen’s  or the Jonathan Taylor Thomas’s. Debra was a serious actress. Someone to be reckoned with. My imagined reviews included, “Debra’s portrayal of Titania was so nuanced, so ethereal, this critic was transported.” Except it wasn’t. I wasn’t ... Titania, I mean. I was “fairy”. Unnamed fairy. With one speech. The main fairy, mind you, but that still didn’t stop me from sucking. “Over hill, over dale, over done.”

At that moment I would have given anything to retreat to the Debbie. Or even to the D. Small d. Clearly, I wasn’t worthy of the Debra. I felt that at any moment Deborah Kerr herself was going to strip me of my gossamer wings.

But Debra I remained all those years. Through sitcoms, stage plays, waitressing, and The Second City, I remained Debra, ever hopeful that the sheer class of “The Debra” would take me far. With the name Debra I could cling to some modicum of credibility, despite my less than stellar credits.

Then I met my husband and from day-one he called me Deb. Not Debbie, not Debra.  And after a while (read: post menopause), I began to like this handle. Deb. Unadorned. Simple. No bullshit. Just Deb. And my favourite part is that my parents now call me Deb too. And it must be tough for them because they christened me Debra and they loved that name for me. But they got it too. Deb. Approachable. Deb.

So, once again, I have changed my professional name to Deb. Deb McGrath.

See what I mean? It’s good, isn’t it? You know where you stand with Deb.

“Hi, I’m Deb. I’m friendly. I’m accessible. I don’t take myself too too seriously. I’m over myself. I’m Deb.”

But I will always love Debra because that’s how I started. That’s the name my parents proudly gave me.

And I will always love Debbie because when I hear it called out, I know it’s a childhood friend whom I am always thrilled to see.

But now I’m Deb. Deb McGrath.

However I would be remiss if I did not thank its predecessors who made “Deb” the person she is today.

So ... My heartfelt thanks go out to Debra Anne McGrath. Debbie Anne McGrath. Gidget McGrath, Debra McGrath Mochrie, Debra Mochrie, and Debbie Anne.

Thanks, ladies.

I could not be Deb without you.

Barbara: Well, I envy you your name/names/handle/alias/tag/moniker/etc celebration. Mostly because even at my ripe old age, I wish my name was some other one. I will answer to Barb—and do, because almost every single person calls me Barb. Even those who’ve just been introduced to me. Even those who haven’t yet heard someone else call me Barb. Even people who are supposed to be super-polite to me. No, it’s always with the “Barb”. Funny. Anyway, I don’t hate it, it’s fine, it’s just not my … name, ya know? And Barbara? Never really embraced or loved that either. Like my poor daughter, Michele, always wish I had a name that felt more “me”. But I’m getting there. I think, to your point, Deb, “I could not be Barbara without you”. Gotta love that!

Deb: Barb, this is killing me. I had no idea you did not relate to your name. I think this is something you could open up. Why? Who do you see yourself as? What name would you give you? No pressure, but I think it is fascinating. Me? I think you are Barbara—Barbara, gorgeous Barbara. Barbara Feldon, Barbara Eden. Lovely Barbara. Three syllable Barbara. Lovely name. Of course, you have to feel that way too. That is KEY! Do our kids like their names? What else would they have called themselves? What about our readers? 

Do we all hate our name at one time or another?

Barbara: Yeah, Michele does NOT like her name. We've niggled on that one for so long, trying to come up with some kind of nickname or something she’d feel is more “her”. But, nope, nothing yet (and please don’t mention her childhood nickname!!). Myself, I always wanted something more modern. My sisters have such sexy names: Catrina, Nicole. I wanted that. Weird. I feel like Barbara is old-fashioned. And yet, even as I say all this, I’m getting more and more into my name. Isn't that bizarre??? It’s a push and pull…

Deb In Someone Else’s Autobiography

Barbara: I didn’t know what little tidbit I would share with you for today’s post, but then it occurred to me that in real life lately I keep talking about this book I’m reading, and then it occurred to me that the book is what I ought to deem worthy for today’s chat (*says in a haughty voice*).

The book is Too Close to the Falls and is an autobiography by a now-Canadian writer/psychologist, Catherine Gildiner, depicting her childhood years in Lewiston, NY. I’m reading it for my amazing Book Club—and I won’t lie: I wasn’t terribly excited to read another this-is-my-real-life-in-chapter-form (with all-the-chapters-taking-place-between-years-4-and-10, no less!!). But it was Book Club, so I waded gamely into the fray.

And, lo, I met this charming, irascible, feisty little kid who had any number of unusual encounters in early 50’s America. She stood up for herself and for every other decent human being in her life. And I just couldn’t shake the impression that I was meeting young Deb in full regalia.

Now I know this isn’t Deb’s story, but one of the things I’ve most loved about this blog is meeting that child of Deb’s yore—the one in the stories she shares with us sometimes. I’ve been surprised and delighted by insights into Deb’s young life—those childhood experiences that full-grown friends often don’t share with each other (we have so many other things to talk about, right?). And so I’ve been even more delighted and excited to read this adorable book.

And as I am reading, I’m also getting that certain feeling that, by odd osmosis, I’m getting to know and love our darling Deb even more. This is what they mean when they call someone “spirited”. It’s the best of all things human and humane. Thanks, Catherine Gildiner. And, of course, thanks my dear Deb.

Deb: I am going to use my Chapters Christmas gift cards and go get this book ASAP. In the meantime I am going to love you for thinking of my life when you read this book. Sweet sweet sweetness. I can’t wait. Remind me to blog about the time I thought my childhood life was in a Penguin book. I have been searching for that book ever since. It is fascinating! 

Out On A Quantum Limb

Barbara: I was never a very science-y, math-y type of person. In fact, in my last years of high school, I scraped by in Chemistry, never took Physics, and completely flunked Math. I know, I know, if I’d had the right teacher or the right method, I might have grasped one or all of these. Believe me when I say it’s one of my life-regrets that I didn’t. Oh, to be mathematically savvy—and more importantly, to believe yourself so!!

So imagine how surprised I was (and still am) when I got an email from a friend the other day asking if I wanted to go with her to an 8-week course on, wait, how did she put it? … Oh yeah, like this: “It is about quantum physics + the metaphysical implications of the findings of theoretical physics.” Officially titled Philosophy and Quantum Physics. I could barely understand my friend’s sentence, never mind understand a course like this, never mind understand why I wanted to take it with every fibre of my being.

Here are some of the other pithy tidbits designed to seduce a plebe like me: The wave particle duality - what is the ultimate reality behind light and matter?
· The Heisenberg uncertainty principle - the consciousness of the observer seems to intrude into the physical world. What does it mean?
· The Schrödinger wave equation - What is its significance?
· Quantum Entanglement - the ultimate connectedness of all matter.

I’m sure there are many of you reading this who can not only get it all, but can argue, delve, debate, trumpet, agree and disagree. But I am not one of you. And yet, last night I took my (as it turned out unnecessary) notebook (okay, unnecessary in that this was designed to be a sit-in-a-circle-and contribute kind of course) and my meek little mind to this actually very comfortable and intimate classroom. There I found myself amidst other curious beings of various aptitudes and began an adventure that I am thrilled and excited to be part of.

I haven’t knowingly been hungering for classes or lessons, although I do remember bemoaning on these very pages that I envied the lesson-takers (thanks, Deb, for that unwitting shot in the arm). And here, a mere week later, the universe has seen fit to offer me a mind-shifting microcosm. And I have seen fit to jump in with both my ears and mind open. Woo-hoo!

I’ll see you on the other side of the Quantum Leap (or, if they make their case, now–– because now and then is all happening at the same time).

Deb: The closest I come to understanding what you're talking about is loving the show Quantum Leap with Scott Bakula. I understood every single word of that show, so, ummmm, just sayin’ I think I would be top of the class!

Barb, I am so so proud and happy for you. Learning! And learning impressive stuff. You have inspired me right back! I may just go out and become an astronaut. Can’t wait to hear more on these very pages!!!! Wait. Is Scott teaching it by any chance ‘cause...