No, I'm not going to make a silly list of things about me that need to be fixed.

I think I was a teenager when I first heard about inferiority complexes. It was immediately after that when I realized I had one, and felt good about it. It was reassuring to know that I wasn't all alone, that I possessed something, and I was proud of it.

In fact, my pride may have contributed to my pushing it to the limits, or maybe I was always pathetic and unquenchable in my needs. At any rate, for the ensuing ten or fifteen years I rarely felt comfortable or worthy. After nearly every date I'd wonder if I would ever kiss her again. I wasted hours and days of my life worrying if I'd made some mistake, if she'd found someone whom I'd think of as better, if she'd realized at last what a poor excuse for a boyfriend I was.

The people I look up to, the ones I consider successful and wish I were more like, all have faults of their own. They do not, however, suffer from misjudgements about their lack of worth. They're not, obviously, prideful and don't strut around showing off their wins and boasting of their accomplishments, but they're happy in their own skin and have a realistic view of their place in the cosmos.

One of the hardest things for me to accept is that I'm worth the effort people expend on me. I believe it intellectually, but don't feel it in my heart. I mean, I know I'm a pretty decent guy, better than some, even, but when it comes to feeling that way, I rarely do. It takes a rare woman to make me feel okay, and I should be able to do that for myself.

I wish I could do more for myself, that I could get fired up about making Russell a better person, but I often need the impetus of another to accomplish anything. I'm unhappy living in squalid filth, but I'll do that for extended periods before I fix anything just for myself.

I don't feel good about myself. I can, momentarily, and usually when I'm helping someone else and not thinking about me. I need to do more of that, I know that I was happiest when I was living that way. But there's so much now that I can't do any more, I'm more likely to lie to myself than ever before. And lying to myself is the worst thing I can do.

I don't consider my lack of physical fitness a fault, nor my smoking, nor my addictive personality and struggles with and against drugs and alcohol. The things that accompanied that, the selfishness mostly, is something I regret, but I can often accept that. What I have trouble accepting is anyone's feelings for me. I'm certain they're real, but also convinced they're undeserved.

At some point in my life I discovered that if I was sick I could garner pity and sympathy. I clung to that like a climber to a rock: it was an emotion I could believe in, one I could imagine people having for me. I couldn't be wanted or loved, that was out of the question, but I could be pitied and people could feel sorry for me. For awhile, for far too long, I would feign illness in hopes that people would aid and assist me, and they often did. I'd turn them away, of course, but somewhere deep inside me I must have felt good.

I spent a great deal of time justifying and glorying in my lack of self worth. The joke was, if I didn't feel that way, if I wasn't hampered by it, I'd be far too desirable for anyone to refuse anything. I was young, reasonably fit, not bad looking, with a quick mind and a clever, dry wit, and if it wasn't for those emotional flaws, I'd be quite the catch. I saw it, then, as a balancing factor. In the universe's efforts to maintain moderation, I couldn't be expected to be near the top of both the physical and mental piles. What chance would anyone else have?

So, for a long time, I did nothing about it, nothing to better myself. In fact, what I did was flee from reality whenever I felt less than acceptable. Since that was the overwhelming of the time, well, you can see the result.

I know: it's an inside job. "You've got to feel good about yourself, Russ," I hear people say. "You're a fine fellow. I like you." There are times when I can believe it, too. Certain people have removed this selfish worthlessness for years at a time, certain gestures have removed it for hours or days. When I was taking anti-depressants I reached the zenith, and one day while driving to work I felt adequate, as good as everyone else. It was a wonderful feeling, unique in my experience and glorious, but I didn't care to feel that way because of medication. I felt I was cheating reality, that I was altering the order, and I wanted to feel that way on my own or not at all.

I quit taking them, and never looked back. I, also, have rarely since felt any different than I did as a teenager.