in conditional positive self-regard/self-esteem, where we may like or even accept ourselves only if we meet the standards others have applied to us. And since these standards are generally disconnected from our individual needs and differences, often we find ourselves unable to meet them or unwilling to accommodate them, and in turn, unable to maintain a coherent sense of self-worth.
Having to hide a part of oneself in order to be accepted and considered good enough on a consistent basis is a form of emotional rejection and abandonment. D. W. Winnicott was a British pediatrician turned psychoanalyst who wrote extensively about this process and how it can affect the way people relate to themselves and others. According to Winnicott, the need to effectively dance to the tunes of others, especially primary caregivers early in life—in denying our own genuine individual needs—obstructs the development of a healthy and congruent “true self,” and results in the formation of a “false self.”
The false self can be compliant, reacting to environmental demands by accepting them willingly and uncritically, or rebellious, opposing, and aggressively rejecting those demands. In either of these configurations, a false self creates an inauthentic set of relationships, even though they have every appearance of being real. Because this is a wholly unconscious process, the false self comes to be mistaken for the true self by others, and even by oneself. Although this false self persona serves a useful defensive purpose, it becomes an enduring mask, obscuring our real nature and creating considerable internal conflict (often underneath the surface of conscious awareness). It can also greatly increase one’s vulnerability to the significant psychosocial problems. Did someone say addiction?
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I was in fifth grade when the Nassau County police visited Vernon Elementary School, going classroom to classroom with a large display case filled with different types of drugs, all neatly laid out and labeled. We were treated to all of the horror stories steeped in the zeitgeist of the late 1960s. I promised myself that day I would NEVER do drugs—any of them. Bit by bit and substance by substance that promise—which I absolutely meant at the time—disintegrated. I started drinking toward the end of sixth grade, rationalizing that alcohol was different, and that I wouldn’t ever use “drugs.” By seventh grade I was smoking pot.
However risk-laden the path I was on might have been already, seventh grade marked a turning point into darker territory. The three local elementary schools fed into Oyster Bay Junior High School, which placed students in one of four levels based on a combination of grades and standardized test scores. “Honors” was the top of the line, for the brightest kids; “College” was the designation for those considered above average; average students were placed in “Regents,” and then there was a level for kids who were assessed as being below average. It was a curious form of academic segregation—students attended classes almost exclusively within their designated level.
There were approximately three hundred kids in our seventh grade, and only seventeen of us were placed in Honors. I found myself in the midst of the nerdiest, geekiest kids in the entire grade. Even though some of them were friends from elementary school, and as a group they were certainly nice enough, I was in shock; surely there had been a mistake—I didn’t belong there! Most of my close friends were placed in Regents, with a few in College. My sense of being different and of not fitting in discovered a new source of nourishment.
I spent the school year proving to myself and everyone else that I wasn’t like my brainiac classmates, culminating with getting caught in possession of a Scotch-filled water pistol. I created enough havoc that at the conclusion of the school year I was “invited” to leave the public school system—an exceedingly rare occurrence in 1972.
In eighth grade I became acquainted with pills, notably barbiturates. It was also during eighth grade that I was introduced to the wonderful world of opioids, by my mother. We had gone to visit my aunt and uncle for a long holiday weekend when I came down with a skull-imploding headache. Over-the-counter pain relievers had no effect. The pain was so searing and unremitting that my mother decided to give me half a Percodan. As the adults left to go out for the evening, she left the prescription bottle on the night stand next to me with instructions that if the pain didn’t get better I could take another half a pill.
I was still in the infancy of my drug use, but I knew enough to know that if half a pill could be helpful, than a whole one would be better, so that’s what I took. I just wanted the pain to stop and the first half I had taken hadn’t done shit. After what seemed like a few short minutes, my pain dissolved and I was submerged in a luscious, warm, radiant nirvana. I marveled at how delicious it felt. It felt like how I had always wanted to feel.
One of the variables that correlates with the potential for addiction is how someone reacts to the effects of drugs. Research has shown that those who have negative reactions, such as nausea, dizziness, or confusion, are at lower risk for addiction. Those who have more positive reactions, like euphoria, anxiety reduction, or increased energy, are at higher risk.
Somewhere around this time, during a visit to my maternal grandparents in Pennsylvania, my grandmother gave me a laminated wallet-sized card, saying “I want you to have this.” On it in beautiful calligraphy the following words were inscribed: God grant me the Serenity to accept the things I cannot change; the Courage to change the things I can, and the Wisdom to know the difference—the Serenity Prayer. The very first time I read those words they had immediate heft and resonance, as well as an inchoate soothing effect. As I looked at the card and read the words again, my breathing became a little deeper and my pulse rate slowed slightly. I may not have been able to grasp the magnitude of their simple and elegant wisdom, but even then I knew the message they carried was important.
My maternal grandparents were steadfast in their support for me. They were the closest thing to unconditional love and acceptance I knew. They were always in my corner—even when I was a complete asshole to my grandmother, as I was on multiple occasions as a teenager. As the eldest grandson, “grandson number one” as he would say, I held a special place in my grandfather’s heart. The two of us were the only avid bowlers in the family. Although he hadn’t bowled in years due to a bad back, whenever I visited, he would take to the local lanes, watch me bowl, and give me pointers.
In ninth and tenth grades I played JV basketball and varsity lacrosse at Long Island Lutheran High School, which was close by and perennially had among the top high school basketball teams in the state. Their teams regularly included some of the most talented players from New York City, who lived with local families during the school year. The varsity coach’s favorite saying: “Practice doesn’t make perfect. Only perfect practice makes perfect.” The skill-development training in this program was cutting-edge—the drills we practiced and the techniques we honed through countless repetitions would not become mainstream until years later.
The JV and the varsity basketball teams often worked out together. The practices were brutal and the competition fierce. One of the best ways to get better—at anything—is to play with and against people who are better than you are. I was long used to being among the shortest players on the court (unfortunately you can’t “learn” height), but now I was going up against players who were not only much bigger, but whose athleticism was astonishing. Every day I had to play my ass off just to hold my own. I established a niche through hustle play that included sacrificing my body: diving on the court for loose balls and on defense, stepping directly in front of an oncoming opposing player and allowing him to effectively run me over, creating an offensive foul and giving my team the ball. I learned how to fall in ways that minimized the impacts to my body, but the long-term consequences of hundreds of collisions with other players and between my back and the hardwood would later exact its toll.
Sometimes I played with more balls than brains. Once in practice, the varsity center had the ball on a fast break. He was 6′8″, 235 pounds, first team All-New York State, and on this occasion, moving at high speed, focused on the rim, and getting ready to throw
