HURRAH! I am Zeus, King of the Gods!

HURRAH! I am Hades, God of the Dead and King of the Underworld!

HURRAH! I am Artemis, Goddess of the Hunt!

A quintessential coming of age was the Fourth Grade Greek Museum, whereby the students of the Shady Side Academy fourth grade class were assigned an ancient mythological character to portray through an impassioned self-written monologue, set off by the push of a paper button stationed at the front of our desks. We, the fourth graders, stood for two days, bewitched with stoic valor, awaiting the command that our stories be heard. It was an exercise in ahistorical research, public speaking, and dramatic performance—for all of which I possessed a razored penchant. It also gave nine-year-olds an excuse to say things like “I swallowed my son” and “I married my sister,” which would serve as useful context for understanding how the world works later on.

Amongst hundreds of gods, goddesses, monsters and mortals, I was apportioned the role of Athena. Son of Zeus, Goddess of War & Wisdom, Athena was irrefutably superior to roles like Medusa, Cyclops, or god(s) forbid, Persephone, but none of that mattered to me. I’d have sooner begged for a javelin through the heart.

There must be a mistake. I traced the cast list to the eyeline of my teacher, Mrs. Budd. I am supposed to be Aphrodite.

Any streetwise fourth grader knew that to be assigned the role of Aphrodite signified confirmation from faculty that you were worthy of such an exalted status as the Goddess of Love and Beauty. Did my teacher not know me at all? I love love and beauty! Athena was a doomed prophecy—I was destined to be powerful but not beautiful. Aphrodite is Marilyn; Athena is Jackie. Aphrodite is Monica; Athena is Hilary. It was then and there that I first learned the meaning of the Homeric tragedy.

Of course, in the face of my classmates, I refused to divulge my grief. I was to remain firm, infrangible—no one could see the marble crack. I congratulated my competitor—a curly-haired brunette named Felicia who went on to study acting in college—and expressed my eagerness to study Athena. I was determined to make Athena the role of a lifetime. There are no small parts, only small actors.

And thus began my research. I scoured every source I could find on the armored goddess. I read, absorbed, fixated. Naturally drawn to world-building, I was now able to abandon my banal forth grade narrative for a history that was far more textured and heroic. It was easy to internalize Athena’s mythology, to sync my psyche with hers. I boasted my new legend to anyone who would listen.

I was born when I emerged from the forehead of my father—you know, Zeus, King of the Gods? I’m sure you’ve never met him. I cracked open his brain and walked right out. That’s why I’m so smart.

I was an early advocate of the lobotomy, so it would seem.

When it came time to write our monologues, I crafted Athena’s dialogue with tension and poise. I remember nothing of the speech, only this line:

I am Athena, Goddess of what I like to call, The Three W’s: Welfare, Wisdom and War.

I positioned my fingers in a three, fortuitously forming the letter W as I counted through my titles, bookending the introduction with a flirtatious smile and a QVC-style wink. Parents, students and faculty alike were invited to witness my first marketing presentation. It was like I pitched Athena on Greek Shark Tank.

Though a confident actor, I was an undoubtedly insufferable classmate. My commitment to character blistered my relationship with multiple peers (most of the other kids weren’t going method). The only real companion I held was my provisional father, Zeus, played by my fourth grade boyfriend. You’d think that would be a conflict of interest, but if there’s one thing Greek Mythology has taught me it’s that dating your dad can be really good for local agriculture.

When the presentations ended, I was left with the residue: a white, off-the-shoulder sheet dress, a stuffed owl, and a total Greek God complex.

From as early as I can remember, I have possessed an inflated sense of self. I can’t say whether this was innate or taught—I think some amalgamation of both—but it was the source of my childhood defiance and blind self-confidence. What kept me at bay was an equal and opposite force of anxiety and insecurity. Even now, I oscillate between a crippling self-consciousness and the intrusive conviction that I am the greatest woman to ever live.

These can be tell-tale signs of a narcissist, which terrifies me.

You’re not a narcissist, my therapist tells me, annoyed. If you were a narcissist, you wouldn’t be asking me if you’re a narcissist. Narcissists don’t worry about whether or not they are narcissists.

Apparently, I am rich with empathy and self-awareness which disqualifies me from the diagnosis, but I am never convinced.

But Colleen, what if I’m just introspective and insane?

She groans, but I persist. I still haven’t figured out how to assemble the proper cocktail of confidence and criticism.

Driven mad by the lack of thorough evaluation, I recently took to an internet quiz for guidance. Namely, the Are You a Narcissist? Test on PsychCentral.com. I guess I chose an inappropriate time to do so, provided that I was simultaneously resting in the arms of my *very new* romantic partner, who was (reasonably) concerned about my sudden urge to engage in the activity.

If this goes south, she said, I’ll know you warned me.

I laughed, my chest sinking with dread.

Please, Gods, don’t let me be Narcissus.

Ten questions into the quiz and my future was not looking good. I’m embarrassed to show you the worst of it, but I think part of being a writer is having nothing to hide:

Perhaps my responses only mirror Gen Z’s swelling appetite for hyper-individualism. Maybe any stand-up comedian would answer the questions like this. Or, maybe, these are signs of a real problem. But according to PsychCentral.com, I am not a narcissist. Yes—the results were negative. Barely. Turns out I am only high in narcissism. In fact, I harbor a degree of narcissism equivalent to what is often observed in celebrities. I am confident and assertive, but I don’t lack empathy or radiate delusional self-importance. The test practically said:

Guess what? You’re not a monster. You’re just a star!

What a fucking relief.

My fear was, at last, destroyed. I thought, Maybe I am just confident. Maybe I just believe in myself. If I didn’t know any better, I would say I have self-love.

But of course, I do know better.

Words like narcissism and self-love have been corrupted by the contemporary pseudo-therapy language that plagues social media, yogi culture and corporate marketing. Love yourself with NüFACE! Love yourself with SKIMS! Spiritual Gangster. Nama-Slay. Nama-Stay Woke. The meaning of self-love has been twisted and inverted and warped so hard I don’t think anyone knows what it means. I don’t really know either, but I’ll do my best to delineate:

Narcissism is an obsession with the self, typically at the expense of empathy for others. Self-love is an appreciation for oneself that grows from behaviors that support physical and psychological happiness. Narcissism means you are self-aggrandizing. Self-love means you genuinely care for yourself and your needs.

I don’t know the exact rules of self-love, but I get the impression that true self-love is meant to be unconditional. This is why I have never been able to claim it. I was taught to love myself conditionally, meaning to love myself when I am beautiful, when I am high-achieving, when I am doing well socially and balancing a million things at once. I only love myself “when.”

That isn’t self-love. That is self-worth, or something else, something contingent on meeting specific standards. My “self-love” is tethered to the external, whereas true self-love recognizes and embraces intrinsic worth, independent of external factors—or at least, I think it’s supposed to.

I never had that. That is, until recently.

In the middle of October, something kind of bad happened. After three days of doctors visits, a traumatic experience at the Emergency Room, and a sneaking suspicion from a Primary Care physician, I was diagnosed with HSV-1, or, as the kids call it, Herpes.

And before you ask, yes, it is down there. You can get HSV-1 (oral herpes) down there, if you know how to have fun. Wink!

At risk of being too graphic, I’ll just say that doctors were initially unsure of my prognosis because of two primary conditions:

1. My infection did not look like herpes (no blisters or sores).

2. I had not been sexually active in 4 months (herpes symptoms typically present within 10 days, though not always).

Herpes is both a big deal and no big deal at all. There is no cure. I will have HSV-1 forever—#HERPES4EVA. The first outbreak is the worst—often met with high fevers, swelling, and painful urination (#slay). Subsequent outbreaks tend to be easier; sometimes you don’t feel them at all. There is medication. It works quickly and has no side effects. For the first six months, when outbreaks are most likely to reoccur, I’m taking a daily suppressive to decrease my partner’s risk of transmission to 1.9%. Herpes is a big deal if you make it one, but generally, it’s no different from having oral cold sores.

Of course, an STD is a layered sentence. There is stigma attached. There is fear. There is misinformation. There is shame. When the test came back positive, I had two options:

1. Panic and hate myself.

2. Be okay.

I could have lost my absolute ungodly shit. I could have plunged into unsullied self-hatred, pledging to shut myself away from friends, family, and romantic interests. I considered all of that. I considered bearing irreversible remorse. But instead, I said this:

I could feel shitty, but I don’t have to. The only person telling me to feel shitty is me.

It would have been easy to hate myself, but I made a different decision. I decided to love myself. Unconditionally. For the most part, it really was that simple.

Why the sudden change of heart? Why did I finally choose self-love? Honestly, I’m not sure. In the moment, the alternative just seemed like a dead-end of pain. Sometimes we learn from our own actions, before our brains have time to catch up. Sometimes we surprise ourselves. Did an STD diagnosis help me love myself better? No, I don’t think so. I think it showed me how much love was there.

I have herpes and I love myself.

Both are true.

I have herpes and an occasional god complex.

Both are true.

I didn’t want to have herpes—I wanted to be Aphrodite!

Sometimes we don’t get to choose.

I chose loving myself when it really mattered. It’s a choice I will make again, and one I sometimes won’t make, even though I should.

I’m not perfect at it.

If you are suffering from shame of a similar tenor, please know it is self-inflicted. The only person who can make you feel ashamed is you. You are worth loving.

I love you.

Is that weird?

My therapist says it’s fine.

XOXO,

Shelby