A Life of Betraying Myself
"Betrayal of yourself in order not to betray another is betrayal nonetheless. It is the Highest Betrayal." - Neale Donald Walsh
One day, I woke up inside my life and realized I'd spent a lifetime of betraying myself. It wasn't the kind of awakening you do in the mornings with begrudging yawns and encrusted eyelids, but, it was. This awakening was from a psychological slumber––the slumber of an unconscious traitor.
You know the type:
• The Servant.
• The Giver.
• The Nurturer.
• The Sacrificer.
I needed no religious training to embody these characteristics. They were just there. Mercy. Beneficence. Compassion. I needed training to teach me how to hold back these tendencies. They were destroying my life and I did not know it
"When I realized how much I did not really matter in my life, it was frightening and shocking."
Inarguably there is nothing wrong with serving, giving, nurturing, nor sacrificing. In most contexts they are noble qualities –– qualities this ignoble world needs more of. But at what expense?
I cannot tell you how many times I have awakened mid-stride a gallant gallop to fall upon my sword. It was second nature. No, this was first nature.
When I realized how much I really did not matter in my life, it was frightening and down right shocking. But even that shock and that fright were grand plateaus of achievement––like plateaus of self-honor I had to grow into––in order to become genuinely appalled at how much I did not matter to me. Prior to that, it just could not matter to me how much I did not matter to me.
Unconscious self-betrayal was such a badge of prideful honor, I would have never seen the basic error of my ways. I was the person willing to march into the line of fire for all causes of all peoples, except the cause of myself. I didn't qualify for such a savior in my life.
"...SELF-BETRAYAL WAS THE HIGHEST DEFINITION OF MANHOOD. TO GIVE ONE’S LIFE, SUBSTANCE AND SUSTENANCE FOR KITH, KIN, COUNTRY, CULTURE, FAMILY OR THE CLOSEST UNDERDOG I COULD FIND, WAS EXACTLY WHAT BEING A NOBLE SOLDIER WAS ALL ABOUT."
I'd never met a sword I wasn't willing to fall upon––at least, up to that point. Unconsciously, I was a hero constantly seeking a tragedy. And boy did I find them; in circumstances, in women, in life drama after life drama. I was a perfect match to them. What hero isn’t?
To me, at the nadir of it all, self-betrayal was the highest definition of manhood. To give one’s life, substance and sustenance for kith, kin, country, culture, family or the closest underdog I could find, was exactly what being a noble soldier was all about. Was it not?
How many of Joseph Campbell's immortalized hero templates must a child witness in literature, film, or television before the impressionable quality is carved into the wood of him––as the default setting––the quintessential definition of what his manhood should aspire to become?
Even as I pen this, I feel the conflict arise within me, between what I now know to be more sensible, and what I've known of myself for all of my betrayed life. And so, the war continues to rage inside––with heroes on both sides, both me, and both falling on swords of confusing and vacillating principles.
When I hear people describe some random person as, "Oh, William? He'd give you the shirt off of his back. He's a good guy." I still struggle with admiring William versus seeing him as a nearly unassailable fool. Intellectually, I know he is a fool, but the damnable bleeding-heart in me still sees him as an honorable fool.
William's life doesn't work outside of the 90 cinematic minutes of an epic film. I know. I've tried William's life. And my rousing round of applause of him is finally beginning to taper off––and thankfully. Just that one dismantlement of dysfunctional hero worship may be slowly and quietly saving my life.
"I hated her for that. I love her for that. Her question disassembled me."
This awakening did not happen in a flash, and it's still happening as the sleeping beautiful parts of myself arise to take enlightened control of me. This has taken, and is taking, years––with many pivotal gurus along the way.
One such guru in my life could not have stood more than five-feet and one generous inch––a delightful little Israeli woman, with stern, deep eyes like two twin lakes, dominating her appearance. Ms. Hadad's hand-crafted curriculum for me took all of four life-restoring minutes. She aimed those over-powering eyes at me and said, "Akil... I can see that you are up to all of these wonderful and powerful things, but are you happy? You don't seem happy."
Surely a deep and audible sigh wafted from my lips. I hated her for that. I love her for that. Her question disassembled me. I was done.
Earth failed beneath my feet. It shuttered. It quaked. I had nowhere to run. Life as I knew it, ceased. I was cornered between those two gazing lakes, with shores too far to swim. She pressed a button that would begin to unspool a lifetime of mummified self-disrespect. And the shit hurt.
A lot.
"IT NEVER EVEN OCCURRED TO ME THAT I WAS WORTHY OF SAVING, BECAUSE IT NEVER EVEN OCCURRED TO ME THAT I WAS DROWNING. I'D SIMPLY NEVER LOOKED MY WAY."
Her nuisance of a question spear-tipped with what I considered one of the most pestilent words in the dictionary (happy) was all that I could take. At that moment, and for the next series of years, I had to come face to face with how unhappy I truly was and did not know it––plus, deal with the gravity of it, plus the perpetrator of it (me). I'd become a genius-level professional at saving everyone's life but my own.
It never even occurred to me that I was worthy of saving, because it never even occurred to me that I was drowning. I'd simply never looked my way.
From that day forward, the day after Ms. Hadad’s words, a hell of realized unhappiness engulfed me––a hell I'd already lived, unconsciously, nonetheless. All of the memories of me breaking myself to preserve others were played back to my fright worn eyes like the career making scene in Kubrick's, "A Clockwork Orange". I squirmed in horror, forced to face the obviousness of what I'd done to myself over and over and then over and again. But this wasn't a 137-minute dystopian classic made up of actors, it was a festival of back-to-back self-betrayal content clips spanning decades; from 6-years old, forward. This was real life––my real life. It was a painful documentary that would not stop. I could barely take it. Eventually, I had to break free and just walk out of this tortuous theatre to get myself together.
I was shaken to the core.
All the loyalties I'd given to people without a loyalty to myself; all the fierce protection I'd given to others without a fierce protection of myself; all the noble friendship I'd given to others without nobly befriending myself. The rents I’d paid, the clothes I'd bought, the tuitions I'd doled out, the meals I'd prepared and served like a servant. The careers I'd launched, the jobs I'd referred, the compassionate hours of counsel I'd channeled to deaf, non-transformable ears, that really only wanted attention at the end of the day. The avalanche of much too expensive gifts to people who knew not the value of the gifts nor the value of my generosity––CHIEFLY––because I didn't know it.
And where was I in all of this?
Unknowingly lost.
And, oh, um… unknowingly self-betrayed.
"LEARNING TO SET A PLACE AT THE TABLE OF THE FEASTS I AUTONOMICALLY PREPARE FOR OTHERS IS NO EASY TASK. IS IT EVEN POSSIBLE TO DEFEAT SUCH DEEPLY ENGRAINED PATTERNS IN OUR CHARACTER? PERHAPS NOT."
Don't get me wrong, I've received many words and letters of thanks over the years. Not a deluge, not a trickle, but enough for me to realize there was at least some impact. I get more redeemable thanks from impacted people who are the furthest from me versus those who have been closest to me. That's just human nature. Those closest to you tend to treat you how you treat yourself, because you have subconsciously trained them to do so. They disregard exactly what you disregard. You. So, they remain free from any blame from me.
But one day, I want to write myself a letter of thanks. I want to feel what it feels like to be under the apparent warm and encompassing light (that whatever God you worship has put) in me. I finally want to feel it too.
Learning to set a place at the table for myself at the feasts I habitually prepare for others is no easy task. Is it even possible to defeat such deeply engrained autonomic patterns in our character? Perhaps not. But I know I can keep myself awake enough to step over those engrained trenches in me, to choose a different choice (when I become aware that I’m playing the pattern again). I deserve that. I'm convinced... I deserve that.
"IT SEEMS THAT ALL HEROES HAVE KNOWN HOW TO DO IS DIE FOR PEOPLE."
Heroes need an upgrade. Givers need an overhaul. Saviors need saving. Can't we serve others without betraying ourselves? We need a new kind of hero––a kind of hero who can also be heroic to self. One who can also be kind to self. One who can also be compassionate to self. One who doesn't die for us in the end, but one who lives and knows how to live. It seems that all heroes have known how to do is die for people. Aren't you tired of dead heroes? I am.
I no longer want to be the William who would give you the shirt off of his back. I'd rather see William give you the shirt off of his back because he's wearing two shirts. That's my new goal of life. In fact, my new goal is three shirts. One to give. Two to keep.
A D V E R T I S E M E N T
