self-confidence

Fitzwater

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Someone with the name “Fitzwater” came across my social media feed the other day and made me think of someone I had met years ago. She was a waitress at a local Thai restaurant. I’m not sure of the exact circumstances, but we ended up going on friendly date together. We talked about her autistic son. She was a single mom. And how she struggled to make ends meet. Life eventually took us different directions, she fell off my radar as her presence on social media ended, and I had forgotten about the “Nikki” in my phone contacts.

That is up until Friday, when I decided to do a deeper look into her whereabouts. Since we lacked any common friends (other than Adam Bartlett who is deceased) and maybe that is why I never got the news. My hope was that she was married, got her feet back under her, and wondered about that kid she loved so much that she borrowed money to give him an exceptional Christmas. It was a total shock to come across an obituary for Nicole E. Welton. I opened the link and the picture was the Nikki I had known. She was dead for over five years now—only 32 at the time of her passing.

Was it a drug overdose?

She never told me she was a user. She did tell me I was “too good” for her and was so thin that I had to wonder.

So I continued my search, and pondered a bit about what had come of her son after she passed?

I found the answer:

PA – Nicole Welton, 32, & Son, 11 – Double-Death Investigations – Lancaster Cnty

Oh no!

And a few clicks later I would find the tragic truth. This kind and wonderful human being died in a murder-suicide. She shot her own son before turning the gun on herself in the motel room two hours south. Her son was her faithful companion, she told me, “My son is with me. So I never feel alone”  That is where her heart always was—which made wince when I saw this in the article:

Diamantoni said he was not releasing the boy’s name. He said the boy was living with his father not his mother.

She lost custody?

What a terrible thing for a single mother, in her thirties, to lose a child she brought into the world even if it was for good reason. It does not justify what she did. And yet she was in despair and her 11-year-old boy was probably the only reason she had holding her back from suicide.  In that she couldn’t leave him behind as the only soul that she felt loved her anymore. Selfish? Perhaps. But maybe a distorted effort to ‘protect’ him, an autistic (ADHD according to an article I’ve read since) child, from having to deal with her choice to end it all. I’ll never know, I just feel she was never going to leave him behind. 

This was confirmed, later, when I read how her son’s dad was seeking to expand his custody and there was a court date the same day…

I had to go read through our conversations and several things jumped out. First, what she told me about her nasty C-section scar and how unattractive it made her. Although I never saw for myself, she was a beautiful and attractive person—both physically and otherwise. This struggle with body image came up several times. Second, I had more or less friend zoned her from the beginning, wuth my impossibility obsession then being a topic in the thread. I never led her on—but I never gave her a chance either.

It’s just so jarring considering how my life has gone since then. I’ve finally emerged from the wilderness. My wife, my 13-year-old son, the baby daughter that brightens my world, all that has happened since that brief moment of connection with Nikki. It makes me wish I could have done more to change the trajectory she was on, although I don’t know what I could have done for her. With her dies someone who said I was an angel and the single platonic moment we had shared. This the second suicide of a relatively young person that I had invested time in trying to help—and could easily have been me had my Bhest not intervened.

Two lives cut tragically short. How else can the tribute to them read? A young boy, born the way he was, the apple of his mother’s eye, and then killed by the one who bought him into the world. His mom, never quite able to get around that corner, dreaming of the fairytale and stuck in the bog of single parenthood—burdened by her lack of self-confidence.

Why someone who was always so kind and considerate to me was not more generous to herself?

My mind simply can’t compute such things.

One thing, before I finish, is the other victim in all of this and that is the father of the boy who was left reeling. She never told me she was married. All I had ever known was her maiden name. And I don’t know what led to their separation. What I do understand now is that relationships are hard work and that we’ll never find the ‘perfect’ one. There are many miserable marriages and I don’t think people should stay in an abusive situation. But being alone to face the world isn’t ideal either. I wish Nikki, Dante, and the grieving dad I’ve never met could have had their own happily ever after together.

Are Those Girls Laughing At Me?

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There was a time, many years ago, when I had a particularly severe struggle with insecurities, it was likely related to a recent romantic rejection and this mess of anxieties being part of the aftermath.  I had walked into a youth volleyball event and, observed, a couple of girls across the room laughing. 

I had known how cruel young women could be about guys who didn’t meet their standards, overheard their giggles and comments related to that slightly awkward and unfashionable older guy who was the constant butt of their jokes.  So my fears of this sort of ridicule were not entirely unfounded.

But, after a quick self-assessment, making sure I wasn’t wearing my underwear on the outside or anything too obviously wrong, I did my best to ignore that nagging voice and find another explanation.  They could have been laughing about anything, there was absolutely no reason to conclude it related to me and yet the unpleasant knot remained in my stomach.

Had I run with this conclusion, based upon my hallucination of their reason for laughing and not reality, this incident added to my existing grievance with the female gender.  I was already aware that many girls have a 5′-10″ cutoff for guys they will date, the guy that did end up dating the one I had asked was a six-footer, it could be that they were laughing at my expense?

However, had I gone with that, even if I didn’t match across the room and command them, “Do better!”  Something that most definitely would have branded me as a weirdo even if they were guilty and did apologize.  Even if I had simply allowed my own explanation of their actions to metastasize, it would be the root of a very toxic attitude that would further marginalize me.

My initial interpretation, born of my anxieties, not their laughter across the room, was the real problem.  Even if we banned all laughter or every snickering teenager girl were reprimanded for their feeding of male insecurities, had a plan been devised to force all girls to date short men as reparations for discrimination and height privilege be excoriated by leaders, the actual issue would never be solved.

No, I’m not saying that genuine acceptance doesn’t go a long way towards healing old wounds.  Becoming part of the Orthodox world, where I didn’t have a reputation to proceed (and limit) me, where it was possible to talk to the opposite gender comfortably, did certainly help.  And there’s no denying that my being in a relationship has lowered the stakes and helped me to relax around other women.

Still, all that only happened once I stopped caring what other people thought and subsequently became comfortable in my own skin.  Today, unless it was a really bad day, I would be more likely to laugh with those laughing and then ask them what they were laughing about.  Slinking around, and making accusations, might gain you a following on social media and earn the meaningless sympathies of those only hearing one side.  But it will do nothing to improve self-image.

Painful as it was, I’m glad that things didn’t work out for me because someone swooped in for the rescue.  Had this happened I may never have found my internal spiritual footing and, after briefly appreciating the charitable effort, remained as lacking in confidence.  Pity the woman who marries a man looking for her to bolster his self-image and mend his brokenness, that relationship is probably going to be hell in a few years.

My physical stature hasn’t changed since my days of paralyzing approach anxieties and there remains plenty of reason that one may laugh in my direction.  But my life improved vastly when those voices of self-pity and doubt were muted.  At this point it would not matter if those girls had been truly laughing at me, I wouldn’t take them so seriously anymore. I’m a different man.