I hate feeling stupid.

I’m 10 years old. My Dad places a platter of cooked chicken legs on the table. Suddenly, I think about an actual chicken, and I know that chickens only have two legs, but there are so many chicken legs on that platter. I want to say, “All of those chicken legs can’t come from the same chicken, can they??” Instead, I say nothing. Because if I ask that question, my Dad will sarcastically tell me, “Yea, Charlie, they all came from the same chicken.” My brother, Jim, will make fun of me and call me an idiot. My feelings will get hurt, and someone in my family will call me a baby and tell me to stop being so sensitive. My biggest insecurity is feeling stupid. For most of my life, I’ve learned to cope with it by keeping quiet. When I’ve wanted to ask a question, I don’t. When I don’t know how to do something, I avoid it. By trying to protect myself, I hoped to make the feelings go away. Instead, I made the feelings worse. In Michael A. Singer’s book, The Untethered Soul, he refers to this as

I’m 10 years old. My Dad places a platter of cooked chicken legs on the table. Suddenly, I think about an actual chicken, and I know that chickens only have two legs, but there are so many chicken legs on that platter. I want to say, “All of those chicken legs can’t come from the same chicken, can they??” Instead, I say nothing. Because if I ask that question, my Dad will sarcastically tell me, “Yea, Charlie, they all came from the same chicken.” My brother, Jim, will make fun of me and call me an idiot. My feelings will get hurt, and someone in my family will call me a baby and tell me to sto