Tag Archives: insecurity

The Me I Could Be/The Me I Could Never Be

Wow, I can’t believe I haven’t updated in so long. I really had no idea how much time had passed. Time keeps drifting through my fingers. I’m sorry that I’ve been a crappy blogging friend and haven’t been around.

I’m okay. I’ve remained cocooned in a bubble of self-isolation. My emotions seem to be a yo-yo, though.

The week before last, I visited my family. A week ago, I went back to work. For some reason, my anxiety was working overtime, and I kept thinking I was on the verge of a panic attack. I thought I could feel everyone hating me. Then I had this conversation that seemed to insinuate people there liked me. And for the rest of the week, I noticed other small signs that appeared to indicate that idea.

I went to therapy, and we talked about how I wasn’t content with the status quo in my part-time job situation. We were discussing this job I’m thinking of applying for. I doubt I would get it, but I was thinking of applying as practice. My therapist thought that would be good because I would put less pressure on myself with that goal.

Anyway, after the session, something clicked. I had this vision of the me I could be. Of what I used to be like before the big break, my competitive, success-driven self. My self that strives for competence and always achieves it. (Well, except for the pesky social anxiety, which was ten times worse in the past. I think even though I don’t take medication that strictly addresses social anxiety, it helps. Of course, I think all my problems are tied together and influence each other, but that’s a subject for another post.)

I felt this understanding that my perception of what people think of me is sharply different from reality. That if I feigned competence, people would believe it. (Because really, half the time I feel like I have no idea what I’m doing.) That I could hold a higher position and do well at it.

But then something in me flipped. I knew that this vision of the me I could be was actually the me I could never be. Every time I imagined myself succeeding, I imagined myself failing spectacularly afterward. Making stupid and costly mistakes. Anytime a person wants to talk to me at work, my first thought is always I’m in trouble or didn’t do a good job. I feel like that result is inevitable. I also had urges to sabotage any success I may have. Like I can’t let myself succeed ever. Because I don’t deserve it. Because I’m always panicking, and I’m gonna choke.  I might as well prevent the future disappointment by sabotaging myself first.

Then I started thinking that if anyone who likes me really knew what I’m like inside, the terrible person I am, the messed-up person I am, they’d be revolted.

It’s just really no one’s ever liked me. For much of my life, I had no friends. I have only one now. The idea of people liking me doesn’t compute. I’m overly sensitive to it. My therapist and I once talked about my biggest trigger, rejection. Perceived rejection. I can see little things as rejection. In general, I’m just much too sensitive, like easily shattered glass.

After I realized that the me I could be was the me I could never be, all I wanted to do was cower in a corner. I can’t go through the big break again. I don’t think I could make it through another one. For the past three years, my life has revolved around laying low, my priority being to prevent any repeat of the big break. Three freakin’ years. I’m pathetic.

Even after all that time, my will is a crushed feather. I’m all uncertainty and indecision.

I’m too broken. Thus, the me I could never be.

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Marooned in Myself

It’s hard to explain where my head space has been for the past few months. I don’t know what I should be saying right now. For the past few days, I keep coming on here to post then freezing and having nothing to say.

Well, at work, a few months ago we applied to have my job become a full-time one. The fiscal year begins in July, and since I haven’t heard anything about the matter, I assume it’s a no-go.

This is going to sound really childish, but I’ve always had a belief that things work themselves out for the best. In my life, that used to seem to happen, anyway. It’s also kept me going. But for the past year, things haven’t gone that way, and I’m just afraid I’m destined to fall. That belief is stupid, anyway. Loads of people don’t have things work out for them, so why should they for me? I’m not so damn special. Plus, the world often isn’t fair.

Ideally, I’d like to stay at my current job and have it be full-time. I’m decent at it. I like it there. I’m finally starting to feel like I belong. After two and a half years, which is kind of pathetic, but still. That’s the way I am. It’ll probably take me that long to feel comfortable someplace else.

I feel like this ideal is what’s best for me and my mental health. The pressure of starting over terrifies me. The idea of interviewing and looking for a new job terrifies me. That’s why I’m not assiduous at job-hunting.

For the past few months, I’ve been isolating. I continue to isolate. It’s like I live in this dream world in my mind and ignore large concerns in favor of small ones, only living from day to day. I drift. I let my mind be consumed by stories, both my own and those of others, whether that be in the form of books, movies, or TV shows.

And I like it.

But it can’t last. Bigger concerns will no doubt crash into it all one day. Plus, I feel hollow and alone. I can’t stay like that perpetually.

But I want to stay like this. Keep my anxiety at bay. Be consumed by fantasy because it’s all I have, because I don’t belong in this world.

The more I isolate, the more anxious I do become when I have to be around people. The more I just shut everything out.

The more I don’t read others’ blogs. I feel so guilty about it. I do care about the bloggers I follow. But I fear that maybe I’m lying to myself about that, because wouldn’t I stay more caught up if I did?

Yet I don’t. I continue to remain in my bubble. And the worst part is, I’m not even doing that badly. Just isolating. But perhaps that’s why I’m not doing too badly in the first place–I’ve inured myself into a self-contained isolationist world.

I don’t know. I don’t know what on earth I’m rambling about. But there you have it: the unlikeableness of me.

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A Heart Bursting With Weakness

I’m going to do some complaining even though I have no right to. Things are going decently, comparatively speaking. I’m not in one of those deep darknesses that make me feel as if I might endanger myself. It’s a softer spell.

I’m just so tired. All I want to do, and all I’ve wanted to do for some time, is sleep. But going to sleep at night makes me nervous. I don’t know why.

I just want to sit here and do nothing. For my whole life, almost. I can’t get myself to do more than the bare minimum at the moment.

I want to lie in a warm cocoon and never leave.

There’s so much pain in my heart. Just pain about everything, the whole world. Any topic I can think of, and I feel as if something about it smites my heart.

I’ve been reading over the rough draft of my novel. I think I’ve come to the end of the part I wrote during NaNoWriMo. I still have circa 46,000 words out of 112,000 left to read. I wrote most of those after NaNoWriMo, so I guess my blogging hiatus paid off. I would’ve never been able to write so much otherwise.

But the last couple of chapters I’ve read in it have been awful. I don’t know how to fix them. And now I read it, read everything, and the writing is in abysmal shape. I’m not cut out for this. It’s just not good enough, and it’ll never be good enough. All this effort I put into noveling is laughable. I don’t know how to edit. There are many wonderful books out there, and this idiotic novel will never fit in among them.

I have to put the novel away for a few days; I can’t look at it right now without shuddering at how inane it is.

Still, after a few days, this random pain in my heart (it has nothing to do with the novel) won’t go away. Everything makes me want to cry. I don’t know where it’s coming from or what it means. Nothing’s happened to trigger it.

Something whispers to me:

No one likes you. You’re weak.

The only thing for it is to maroon yourself from humanity.

I don’t care if that hurts. It’s what you deserve, and it’s not like you’ll ever belong anyway.

The world is too much. It bruises, and you bruise too easily.

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Sensitivity and Defensiveness

I am too sensitive. Simple as that.

I’ve been told this my whole life. I’ve known it my whole life. I would remember the hurtful things most, holding them in my mind, maintaining a grudge even when I knew it was wrong, even when I knew I wasn’t being sensible, even when I knew the words had never been meant as criticism.

Any hint of disapproval, whether in the words themselves or the inflection of the voice, would have me devastated. Another scar on my soul, a scar that wouldn’t even be there if I weren’t such a weak person.

But I have my pride. Yes, even though I am deeply insecure and hate myself so much, there’s pride in me. Pride is wrong. It’s egotistical. It makes me question myself. Am I really as insecure as I say I am? If I were, then I wouldn’t have this pride. I must be a poseur, lying both to myself and the outside world.

After being constantly derided for my sensitivity, I tried to hide it better. I often did a piss-poor job, breaking into fits of weeping I’d be told were way out of proportion to the situation. I didn’t reveal my innermost thoughts, though, because I knew I’d just be told they were silly.

I would wonder why no one loved me, but I didn’t say anything about this to anyone. I was inclined to keep my self secret.

This was no one else’s fault. How were my parents supposed to reassure me if I never brought up what I was feeling? In the grand scheme of things, I had good parents. They’ve always cared about me, and many can’t say the same.

It’s always been my fault. I should’ve learned to be stronger.

How can I ever make it in life if I bruise so easily?

I like the idea of constructive criticism. I’d rather people be honest about matters than mince words.

At the same time, I need to be handled with kid gloves. Too much indication that I’ve done something wrong, and I crumble.

Yet I cannot be handled with kid gloves. If I am, then I feel insulted, as if the person talking to me believes I’m too much of a baby to digest the cold, hard truth. Or that they’re disguising their real feelings by feeding me lies.

My sensitivity makes me defensive. I feel like I have to prove I’m not wrong at all costs. I have to vindicate myself. I have to explain every little thing that led me to an action in order to show I’m right. If I’m wrong, then it feels like a personal failure.

The only way never to be hurt is to isolate myself, yet I crave human contact, human connection.

But I feel unworthy of that connection.

There’s always an insurmountable distance as well.

People are always closer to others than they are to me. I grow jealous and take it as a personal affront. I’m not good enough, I think, or else that person would talk to me as much as they talk to those other people. I can’t initiate the contact myself. What if I’m bothering them? I’m always a bother. When I’m present, they might indulge me so they don’t hurt my feelings. Why do they care about my feelings? They don’t, perhaps. They just don’t want to see me make a scene.

I’m overly defensive in order to protect myself. I grow hard, disdaining the world. This to prevent my sensitivity from devouring me.

For that would be the end of me.

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Bereft of Words

I’m worried. I finally finished a draft of my novel, and the epilogue is a mere 300 words. I kept thinking I should add to it, but I didn’t know what I should add to it. I still don’t.

I was going to wait a couple of weeks before I started my first read-through, but I’ve jumped into it already. As it turns out, I don’t remember many of the beginning’s details, so I’ll need to fix the consistency.

Then I got triggered this morning. How is immaterial. The catalyst was minor, not something I can really explain. It affected me so much because I’ve already not been doing my best.

I feel like, for the past two years, I’ve been stuck with nowhere to move. I feel like I’ll always be here.

It occurred to me, with a violent wrench, that my dreams of being an author are childish. Idiotic. This stupid passion I thought had sustained me is nothing but an elaborate fantasy. I’m a failure, and my so-called “creative writing” is an attempt to hide my failure from myself, to tell myself, well, it’s not really failure because I get to do this now.

What makes me think I even have the right to be a writer? Look at all the novelists out there. There are a lot of terrible ones, sure, but there are also a lot of good ones. What makes me think I can fit in amongst them? I can’t. That glory is not for me. It’ll never be for me.

My “love of writing” is just stupid juvenile fancy, something to distract me from the real world.

I have no right, and my dreams are stupid, and I’ll feel even stupider when I strive and strive only to never have my ambitions fulfilled.

I felt a momentary urge to burn my hard copy, the one on which I’ve been correcting typos and writing sporadic marginalia.

(N.B.: The following applies to “real life.”)

I’ll never be able to form a connection with anyone, either, not ever. I can’t help but distance myself. Besides, that ship has sailed. Once you reach a certain age, you’re expected to already have those connections, not begin to form them. Those units are already formed. There’s nothing left to join, and people care only about those in their units. Everyone else doesn’t matter.

The world is a hard, cruel place. People care only about self-promotion. Life is all business, about knowing the right people so you can advance yourself. People are valuable only insofar as they are “useful.” You can’t let your guard down, not ever, because it’ll be used against you one day. (No, this didn’t just happen to me–that wasn’t the trigger.) People treat life like business, only caring about “getting ahead,” disregarding the inner core of those they deal with.

Quiet desperation. That’s what I feel. Measured, muted torment, not the frantic kind.

I want to hurt myself just so I can prove to myself I’m not okay. Because this controlled demeanor, it must mean I’m okay, right?

But that would be calculated self-harm, not real self-harm. A way of doing what I do best–putting on a performance.

I was going to write about Blog for Mental Health 2013 today, but this–this I had to get out.

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Flighty and Overwhelmed

I am almost finished with the rough draft of my novel. But there as with here, I find myself bereft of words. I know what’s supposed to happen with the final scenes, but I can’t figure out how to write them without sounding hokey. Actually, the whole idea is hokey, but I think it’s the right ending. A couple of plotlines go unresolved, and I’m worried by that.

I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say I may finish this week. But it feels anticlimactic somehow; the idea barely registers. Finishing, though, overwhelms me for a couple of reasons. One, I’ll need to read over what I wrote and fix the typos (and more major errors). There are some parts I cringe at because they seem too laughably extreme. Then there are the ones that’re lopsided because they didn’t go according to plan.

But returning to blogging-land overwhelms me, too. Not that I don’t want to; I want to very much. But there are several factors. First, even if I’m not writing my novel’s rough draft, I don’t think I can be as active as I once was, both as a reader and a writer. Then there’s my insecurity that I’m not really wanted, etc. Or even if I am, I should just fade away anyway.

I realized something the other day. I want recognition, but I want to be anonymous at the same time. How can I be both? When people at a store start recognizing me, I stop going there.

Where was I?

Oh, there’s the adventure blog. I do plan on giving it another go, but as I said, I’m overwhelmed. It may be a while.

I’m teaching two classes this semester, one at eight in the morning. My sleep schedule is all messed up, and I’m trying to fix it. Nighttime used to be blog time for me, but now I’m going to have to try to find another time for it.

As I think I’ve mentioned before, I’m seeing a new therapist now. She’s young, and I already feel more comfortable with her than I did with my previous one. We’ll find out if that lasts. I’m seeing her once a week, but I might switch to once every other week if I get too overwhelmed (see how easily overwhelmed I am)?

I keep having these daydreams of being a known literary figure. I wish it could come true one day, but alas, that’s not a realistic idea. 😦 Grandiose fantasies never work out.

My therapist thinks journaling will help me, which is a reason I think I should return to blogging. Blogging helps me sort through the strands floating in my head, the strands that scream, that I can’t understand unless I unravel them. (I haven’t told my therapist about my blog. I never told my other one, either. I don’t know if I’ll ever tell a therapist about it; the idea makes me too nervous.)

So, without further ado, after all that rambling, I’m going to get straight to how I feel right now.

I haven’t been doing too well during the past week. It’s a shame, because I had a pretty good week right before that. It’s possible that I’m in a manic or mixed episode, I suppose. Bipolarity’s relationship to me is still murky. Ideas for stories keep flashing in my mind, but that’s the extent of my flight of ideas. Then I feel this urgency, like it all needs to be done now, but then I get anxious, and it spins, and I can’t keep up with it all. My head sometimes does that woozy, feverish thing. It knocks into my consciousness and makes everything feel distorted. Every noise makes me jump; I’m hyperaware of things when I am aware of them. But for the must part, I’m barely aware of anything.

There’s a crippling insecurity, a desire to sabotage myself and make people think I’m a terrible employee. Not that I’ve acted on that urge; I’m too meek for that.

Last week, I talked to my therapist about some of these things. I don’t remember how it came up, but she mentioned that, sometimes when they’re most depressed, people aren’t motivated to do anything. That’s why the idea of a breakdown is hazy to me, why I don’t think I can ever be sure if I’m having a real breakdown or not. Oftentimes my motivation is just not to be noticed, not to trouble anyone or draw attention to myself. If that’s my only motivation to seem functioning, does that mean I haven’t hit rock bottom? During the big break, because I took care to seem fine, did I not really have a breakdown? Am I so weak that a pseudo-breakdown crippled me so?

I keep getting headaches. I haven’t self-harmed in months; it’s not like I ever really did, anyway. Not more than superficially at least. But I keep wanting to do that. Problem is, I can’t think of a place that won’t be visible. I’m paranoid, so many areas that might not seem visible are included in that category. Well, there are a few spots, but that would require more than my timid self can accomplish. It’s too hard, and then I feel inadequate because my attempt is failing.

Instead, I’ve taken to digging my fingernails into my palms. It produces nothing other than indentations that quickly fade.

At the beginning of this year, I suddenly realized how truly fat I am. I knew I was fat, and I said it a lot, but it didn’t fully register. So I decided I need to start eating healthier. But there’s a problem: I can’t because I’m too pathetic.

I’ll explain. I decided the first step would be to curtail my fast food intake and eat less snack food. But over the past few days, I’ve been turning to them as much as usual. Food is one of the main ways I cope with my depression, and when I’m at my worst like this, it’s difficult to restrain myself. I just need a pick-me-up, I tell myself.

Then I’m confronted with the fact that half my clothes don’t fit and they never will because I’m a pathetic food addict, using food to comfort myself.

Since my psychiatrist has substituted Lexapro for Prozac, my anxiety has been higher. Occasionally almost so high that I need to avoid everything and just sit with my eyes closed. I thought the Lexapro was working better as a whole, though, until I hit this spell.

When I’m at work, I keep feeling like there are eyes on me, like everyone’s secretly eyeing me with hatred.

So that’s the long of it, what’s been happening with me.

I think I will be returning to the blogosphere more regularly next week. I should be done with my rough draft then, if not before (although I have to help my mom with something this week, so I most likely won’t be blog-ready if I do finish before next week). I’ll probably start reading y’all’s blogs again, although now I feel uneasy about how much I’ve missed.

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Cemented, Certain

In some ways, I feel fine. I certainly seem fine. I can go about life as usual.

But the more it ripples in my mind, the more I feel it–cemented, certain.

It’s not just the social anxiety. It’s me.

I was reading about avoidant personality disorder on the almighty Wikipedia, and I came across this detail:

“Lonely self-perception, although others may find the relationship with them meaningful.”

That’s when I realized that maybe the distance was all me. I’m severed from humanity, and not just because I’m unlikeable . . . but because there’s an unbreachable wall between me and the world. I can want close relationships all I want, and others can even try to make them happen . . . but ultimately, it’s just not possible. I’m too far away, and I can’t change that.

If I can’t connect to people, why bother?

It’s hard to describe this image I have in my mind. It feels like this newfound knowledge is in some sort of weird brain space. Like that time I thought I had the soul of a murderer.

Is this a delusion?

That was a delusion (probably). No matter what I did and knew about myself, I couldn’t shake that conviction. I couldn’t shake it until I’d scared people away from me.

Am I going to scare everyone away somehow? With my passive-aggressive tendencies, perhaps?

But I don’t think this is a delusion. It seems very logical. Like a logical conclusion my brain has finally come to, one I want to find a way to reject, but I can’t. If I do, I’d be lying to myself.

I can’t connect, and I never will be able to. I’ll never have close friends like others do. All my little-girl dreams of falling love will come to naught. Because I’m incapable.

I am incapable. And even if someone were to penetrate to the core, that’s when they would realize I’m right: I’m unlovable.

There’s no point to any of this. I want to write a post on avoidant personality disorder, and I’ll continue with the Friday Fictioneers. And the Circus, of course. I’ll read others’ blogs. But for all intents and purposes, for what ails me, I can do nothing but accept the brutal truth. No point fighting fate.

I can do nothing but shut down. Even though I am stubborn, often resist, that doesn’t change the facts–I am blocked by bulletproof glass, and that’s the way it’ll always be.

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