I’ve been musing on how the adult child thing can rear its head in good times as well as bad– particularly the feeling inadequate thing. I had the extreme blessing of being able to go to BlogHer08 this weekend. All around, I met women whose blogs I’d admired from afar, and others whose blogs I’d not yet encountered. I got to meet bloggy friends, and I met people who’d read my site. All around, everyone was being affirming, interested, curious about one anothers’ experiences, motivations, and writing.

Having some of that positive stuff directed at me ended up being really hard to handle, even as I was meeting people who I wanted to meet, to hug, to praise. I have no problem praising others. I want to, it feels important, it’s a part of what I’d like to see the world become– affirming, supportive, other-centered. But getting praise? Being the object of interest? That’s another story.

My adult-childness developed not in the scenario of overt abuse, neglect, etcetera– really, I know, it could have been so much worse. But even as the adult child of “merely” divorced parents who were preoccupied with their own (admittedly real) shit, the fact remains that I was forced to step forward to care for myself, to try to care for my brother. Whether or not I succeeded is beside the point– the fact is, I was made to try. I was never told, “this is something you shouldn’t have to take on.” Rather, it was a relief to them, that I was able to take care of myself.

Suffice it to say that having grown up not receiving praise for extraordinary efforts, having had success expected of me as a matter of course, and having no attention paid me should I fall short of whatever their mark happened to be, being on the receiving end of positive attention is . . . anxiety-inducing. It skews my perception of what’s ordinary, where the expectations lie. I keep thinking, “it’s not hard,” or “if they really knew,” or worse yet, “what’s the catch?” Except, of course, this is BlogHer. They do really know, it is hard sometimes, and there is no catch– these women bare their own wounds, and by their support and praise clean and bind those wounds I voluntarily bare for exploration. And yet, I still find it hard to believe– as much as I put my content out there for catharsis and on the off chance that it might be helpful to someone else, spare them the misery I’ve felt, I nonetheless doubt I have something important to say.

It got to the point where I had a little bit of a meltdown Saturday night, and had to get out, go have dinner with my husband while I didn’t really talk. (He’s very patient with my semi-catatonic states like that.) There was so much to take in, and overwhelming is still overwhelming, even if the stuff you’re being overwhelmed with is good. I missed most of the closing party because I just needed to be quiet and have no more input for a bit– which makes me sad, because there were lots of “old” and “new” friends I wanted to talk to. But I couldn’t do it, without a time out to put my game face on. I did get back in time to catch up with some of the folks I wanted to see– but now I’ve some regrets for others with whom I didn’t get to spend more time. Great– now I’ve got self-inflicted wounds, too.

In high school, I had a friend who was perpetually insecure, who was actually great, fabulous, wonderful. It came to be a joke between us when I would reassure her or praise her about something, that if she couldn’t believe herself, she should at least believe me, because as everyone knew, I was always right. The tag line was, “because I said so.” So that’s my resolution (among other things) coming out of BH: even as I am trying to put my “because I said so” out into the blogoverse, I am going to try to remember that my own stuff is interesting, “because they said so.” Thanks, they.