“I despise my own hypersensitiveness, which requires so much reassurance. It is certainly abnormal to crave so much to be loved and understood.”
― Anaïs Nin
Sitting here, alone, basking in the gloom of the grey skies that have been temporarily opening and closing, lightly soaking the earth right outside my window, thinking about how I want to properly open up this entry. Thinking turns into overthinking, which turns into self-criticism, which turns into analyzing, which falls apart and splinters into insecurity, which turns into retreating, which almost always turns into oversharing… then overly apologizing, and we can repeat this whole fucking cycle all over again.
Welcome to my (more common than not) way of… existing? Traditionally I’ll follow this involuntary, yet never faltering, way of processing how I exert myself out in the world. Guess what? I hate it.
I hate constantly feeling like I need some sort of reassurance or validation for almost everything I physically or verbally project. I’ve doubted myself — the things I say, the things I don’t say, the things I do, the things I don’t do, the way I do things, the way I don’t do things — to elaborate: I am basically learning how to not give a fuck.
I’ve made small bouts of progress (like mentioned in this previous entry), which is more than I can wholly say during my active alcoholism, but it always circles back around to me wanting to be loved, understood, accepted — as I am. I do this at home, at work, and you bet your ass I do it on social media. Guess what? I hate it.
Like some people (can’t say most, because that’d be a lie) I try to not judge receptivity or take it personal when I don’t get the feedback or praise I (not so secretly) hope for, but my fucking insecurity and self-doubt always seem to want to go to war with me when I try to not care, worry, or question (everything about) myself. Guess what? I hate it.
Such is the paradox of using your voice, trying to be vulnerable, projecting your most inward thoughts and feelings out into the world *~as a means to heal YOURSELF~* but then you immediately start backpedaling, for whatever bullshit reason, then you start intrinsically questioning your own motives. To say “Here I am, look how brave I am, look how hard I’m working, now please love me” seems very contradictory to me, but yet I catch myself doing this ALL THE FUCKING TIME. Guess what? I hate it.
This is starting to sound like I hate all the things, which I don’t, I’m simply trying to…. work these things out… publicly… for some reason… in hopes of maybe realizing something I didn’t know about myself. (Edit/Update: I’ve realized that I dislike — almost hate — when I observe others sacrificing or compromising their authenticity for the sake of superficial numbers that don’t really amount or prove much of anything. I get tremendously irritated when I see people put out fluffed-up, mindless bullshit content as opposed to pieces or posts that make people think. I am continuously growing annoyed with people’s constant “need” to retreat and fill their own feeds with words and/or images that have zero to offer, as far as contributing something of substance to feed people’s minds. Don’t get me wrong, I love memes and Buzzfeed quizzes as much as the next basic bitch, I’m just articulating what I notice on a daily basis. And it slightly irritates me more than it probably should. C’est la Vie, baby. C’est. La. Vie.)
The fact I am verbose as fuck is not something I don’t know about myself. I “struggle” with the less is more thing — especially in recovery, and even more so when I’m doing self-exploration — I truly cannot simplify things when they are complex.
I guess the direction I’m aimlessly wandering towards is, trying to understand the point of connectivity, and projecting one’s voice out into the world, and figure out the “what does it all mean and who cares anyway?” Which honestly, if you read that last string of words in quotations, is a potentially catastrophic way of thinking if you’re somebody like me (recovering alcoholic turned convalescent crusader). However, I’m going to be brutally honest, sometimes I think these things but never say them. Guess what? I hate it.
But I can’t and won’t deny what I think or feel, because honesty is literally everything, and I’m fully aware that this makes me feel like an (honest) fraud. I say this because my passion, my “where I’m supposed to be,” my “what I’m meant to do” is HELP OTHERS IN RECOVERY. Truth: I’ve been currently and ongoingly (pretend that’s a word for right now, kthx) trying to help keep somebody out of the alcohol soaked trenches of hell for several nights now. Some nights I’ve succeeded, other nights not so much. Yet I keep thinking, especially when they hit the bottle (which I do not fault or judge them for, because I was there not that long ago myself), but I’ll sit there and think “Why am I doing this?” or “Why am I trying to help somebody who clearly isn’t ready to help themself yet?” Things like that.
Yes, I know it’s because I have a humongously ginormous heart and I want to heal and help everyone who needs it (despite being a hobgoblin baby fetus imp who can only do so much from behind their tiny little iPad screen)… and if somebody is going to continue to do something that worsens or prolongs their problem (which I firmly believe you/I/we all do anyways — what it is we want — except in my case, the whole not giving a fuck thing), so why do I keep trying? Why does anybody keep trying? What is the point?
It’s true, the sum of our parts add up and you never know who your voice might potentially reach (viva la Interwebz, amirite?)… so, I guess at the same token, if I sit here and question *this* then why is this same voice questioning what I put out into the world? Such a fucking juxtaposition, right? It’s like we’re talking about being human or something.
All in all, I’ve been deeply questioning a lot of things (shocking surprise) and this was my best, vague attempt at tying some of these thoughts together. Yet again hoping if I verbalize some of these *things* that race through my mind like a pinball game on steroids, they’ll lose some of their grip on me, and upon reviewing what all I pieced together, pick up on something I never knew about myself or another person, at that.
I am, however, continually working on trying to not care as much about my social media presence… I know, I know, “Do or do not. There is no try.”… which, surprisingly I’ve made a teensy, weensy bit of progress in not caring *as much* about the amount of likes, comments, WHATEVER — because at the end of the day, it should still be about the connection, community, and conversations we open up with others and ourselves.
“Nature forms us for ourselves, not for others; to be, not to seem.”
― Anaïs Nin