Tag Archives: sensitivity

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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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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Anger Management

Since I’ve been spending so much time with the Circus at Le Clown‘s blogroll contest, I haven’t had the opportunity to talk about much of anything else. I do have some thoughts about Friday’s therapy session that I’d like to explore, though.

It was actually a pretty productive session. I wasn’t satisfied with some things, like when the therapist said therapy was for people to vent about what they couldn’t in the real world. Shouldn’t therapy be there to help me cope with and adapt to the real world, not perpetually go to it?

I did briefly mention some of my recent erratic behavior, but I’m afraid it was all done very awkwardly.

Even though I’ve tried to be as honest as I can with my therapist and hold nothing back no matter how much I want to, I haven’t actually done that. There are a lot of key things I’ve never told my therapist. It’s because I’m so reserved and timid.

I’m not explaining this very well, and I don’t know if I can. I’m referring to the moments that led to what followed.

Oh, yeah, that’s right. We were talking about crisis hotlines. I said I hadn’t found it very helpful the one time I’d used it. She asked what I expected them to say. I replied that I didn’t know; if I did, I could just tell myself whatever that was. All I could say was that I wanted a more personalized, less formulaic experience. I don’t want people spouting formulas at me. I know those formulas. I could just tell them to myself. It doesn’t seem like they’re really considering me as an individual but just regurgitating by rote what they were taught.

Then she asked about my thoughts on therapy. I repeated the same stuff about formulas and added that I don’t want someone to tell me they’re right just because they’re the “professional.”

This part is slightly hazy to me because I felt a rush of blood to the head. I became light-headed, like I’d let something else take over and hidden somewhere else in my mind. A somewhat muted form of how I felt during my recent exploits.

Then she replied with a bunch of stuff that sounded reasonable to me, but I needed to digest it more. Apparently I was supposed to have a feeling about what she’d said, but I just felt neutral. I guess that’s not normal? I’d just become a little confused about what was going on.

But it is true that I don’t let myself experience anger, not really. And discussing that was the productive part of the session. The only time I ever get angry is with my family, and even there it’s not completely anger. After expressing my anger, usually I’ll feel guilty and just want to go run off and cry somewhere by myself.

I don’t get fully angry at anyone but myself. My timidity won’t let me. Anytime I express anger or have to confront someone, I dissociate. But it’s more than dissociation. And it’s less–I don’t feel unconnected to myself. I just have that weird light-headed sensation take over.

If someone does something that should make me angry, I feel hurt. I feel like I must’ve been in the wrong. I’ll cry because their dissatisfaction makes me tremble, makes me feel like a failure.

Before next time in therapy, I’m supposed to write about what makes me feel angry. But almost everything I can think of is something that hurts me more than angers me.

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Tell Me About Yourself Award

Mm172011 has nominated me for both the Tell Me About Yourself (Your Blog Is Great!) Award and the Versatile Blogger Award. Thanks so much, Mm172011! I have already responded to the Versatile Blogger Award, so in this post I will respond to the Tell Me About Yourself Award.

Here are the rules:
– Thank and link back to the person who awarded you .
– Write seven random things about yourself.
– Award seven other awesome and inspiring bloggers.

Seven Random Facts

Since these are supposed to be “random,” I’m going to list the first seven things that pop into my head:

1) I can’t snap. People have tried to teach me, and I’ve followed their instructions. Not a sound. In elementary school, sometimes we had to snap in music class, and I’d always make pretend snapping motions. Since my mother had informed me that I wasn’t a good singer, I’d usually lip sync, too.

2) Despite misgivings, I asked for a Kindle for Christmas, and I received one. In no way do I intend to give up physical books. I own dozens of books I haven’t read because I will snatch them up when at a sale. I want to keep the piles of unread yet owned books from accumulating, and that’s what I intend to use the Kindle for. The idea of actually buying a Kindle book, though, seems odd. For some reason, I feel like I’m getting less for my money if I’m not receiving a physical copy.

3) Even though I own oodles of books I haven’t read, I still regularly patronize my local library.

4) When I played with my Barbies as a child, I would use them to act out stories, usually mysteries. I gave the characters my own names, of course. Sometimes I’d even make up variations of the same story once I was done with the first version. For instance, maybe one character would die in one version but not in the other one. I’d also occasionally make my Barbies have singing contests; I’d pretend they were singing whatever happened to come on the radio. I could spend hours doing that, ha.

5) Sometimes my mom would join me when playing Barbies, and that irked me. I guess she just wanted to spend some time with her daughter and all. However, all she would do when we played together was brush their hair, change their clothes, and pretend like they were going to the mall. I found this to be supremely boring. I would go along with it because I didn’t want to hurt her feelings.

6) Even when I was a child, my concerns were always for other people’s feelings. Perhaps that stems from my own sensitivity. If my parents pushed me into an activity, I’d always assent because I didn’t want to hurt their feelings.

7) I still avoid strange dogs that are moderately- to large-sized. A couple of years ago, when I was leaving a party, I crossed to the other side of the road to avoid a barking dog on my side. To show I wasn’t out of my mind, I explained to a couple of others near me that dogs made me nervous. I still felt stupid, though.

Blogs I Nominate

I’m going to nominate blogs that I didn’t mention when accepting the Versatile Blog Award. All of those are wonderful blogs that are definitely worth your time! Here are a few more:

James Claims

The Quiet Borderline

Voices of Glass

Healing Mutti

InTrinzic Value

Slightly Disordered

Femina Fatalis

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