Weaving Webs Through the Vacuous Hole of Worthlessness.
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As a being that is alive and moving, perceiving, kicking and beating in this interconnected dream-web of the world, I would like to believe that my inherent worth is unquestionable.
That my deserving-ness of a place in this reality is untouchably intrinsic, that I do not need to hustle and work and trick the people around me into believing that I do, in fact, belong. Part of me does believe in this — in the innate and sacred worthiness of our inborn divinity, and our autonomous rights to live from that place.
Unfortunately, the place in me that believes this is singsong-y, wrapped in the comforts of fantasy and a vision of a world that is unlike the one we actually inhabit. It is a part of me I sometimes cherish, but more recently abhor. It is where my unfounded dreams are born, the part that fervently believes things will, in fact, get better.
But this world of actuality is filled with shadows and unmet longings, it is not a world which teaches us of the indwelling sacredness of the things which surround us.
A miserable, haunting sense within me is coming to its head. It is the realization that no matter what I do, how hard I try, how pretty I am, how much I love and give and care-take and please and work — regardless of any of this, I will never be worth anything.
No matter how much attention I receive, how many gifts and generous offerings of time and food and myriad loveliness-es, how many shining moments I am surrounded by, all of them drain into the vacuous hole of never-enough, and it cannot ever be stymied. I am a worthless human being, and I simply can’t affirm or meditate or pray my way out of it.
It’s liberating, in a strange way, to know this. My rosy, worth-seeking glasses are shattered, and it’s okay for me to recognize that every bit of what I do is fed by this sense of wanting to create a foundation I cannot build.
It’s okay to see how this influences every aspect of my life, how I am desperately trying to earn a sense of worth through everything I do. With every meal I cook, every romance I cling to, every child I teach, and every story I tell, I am begging the world to give me this intangible, quicksilver something which is continuously slipping through my fingers.
I cannot hold on to it, no matter how much is given me, because it is not there.
Worthlessness keeps me hungry and in debt, imprisons words inside of me and hiding from the world. It freezes me in my bedroom, in pajamas, with greasy hair and inflamed skin. It leads me, again and again, to relationships where I trade myself away for a taste of something I want to gain. It forces me to over-commit, as if the sheer volume of things accomplished will ease the empty sense I’m running from.
And, in the end? These things are difficult to face, but they’re okay. They are uncomfortable and make me squirm, but they are happening, whether or not I give space for them to exist. So. I am a worthless human being; and starting to make peace with that.
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Samantha Mansfield is a Yoga teacher, homeschool-program leader, and storyteller. She lives in a small-ish city in Ontario, Canada. She is currently at work on a fantasy novel, and completing her ngondro (a foundational meditation practice) among other invisible things.
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