Taking up writing a blog as a therapeutic out-let for neuroses otherwise left to expand deep within and ultimately cause some kind of tumour or nervous breakdown, is that it adds an unwelcome level of importance to them in my head (not anyone else’s head).
‘Tis true that unlike most secure and normal women, I worry about the kinds of things the people associated with them barely notice occurred. For instance, if I make some off-the-cuff remark about my desire to reproduce, or conversely, my desire to be free from unnecessary compromise, as I fall asleep that night, I will be haunted by my remarks and taken to conclusions far more significant than there originating remarks could ever have hoped for.
Take the two aforementioned remarks and follow the journey.
I say: “I’d like to have children one day.”
A week later, I end up thinking that I have said: “Please have children with me now; I am desperate.”
I say: “I think it is important for people to be free from unnecessary compromise in relationships.”
I end up thinking I have said: “I am a bitch and we do what I want, when I want, and if you don’t like it, you can go to hell.”
So what happens in between the original remark and my resulting anxiety? I presume that my boyfriend spends the next few hours wallowing in this comment looking for hidden meaning and unwelcome hints. I presume that he thinks I am as mental as I think I am, when actually, I’m quite good at hiding it.
What actually happens is that he takes the comment as it was meant, at face value, and that is that.
So, I am aware of this, and trying to train my brain to accept this knowledge and stop the thought-process from spiralling out of control. This would also stop me from saying, out of nowhere, a week or more later during a conversation about what to have for dinner: “I don’t want children with you now, you know?” or defensively, “I’m not a self-centred bitch, so just stop thinking that right now, ok?” to his poor surprised face. “Ok, er, I know, I just said I’d prefer Chinese…” It’s cruelty to the man-brain is what it is.
The root of the problem lies in my childish belief that I am the centre of the universe and that everyone cares about what I say and stands in unforgiving judgement. And I don’t think that I actually think that, but some part of me must, surely, otherwise why would I care so much about how I am understood by others?
And of course, how I am viewed through the eyes of others is only a matter of perception and will certainly vary from poor subjected observer to poor subjected observer, each creating their own versions of reality. And as my own self-image is just as transitional and subjective, and of course ultimately everything is essentially meaningless and we are born and die alone, what can I take to the bank? Nothing! Argh, won’t this damned existential crisis fly from my over-burdened shoulders? No wonder one can find so much to wrestle with; leaving a good impression just isn’t that straight-forward.
Back to reality, a more rational approach would help me to see that the eyes of others are usually focussed on their own centre stage rather than mine. And, that everyone makes foolish or misunderstood comments so most are forgiving when they are the recipient of said comments. And the rest just don’t care that much about what I say, which is fair enough.
But easier said than done.
So I continue worrying too much about how others view me but bravely carry on my fight to stop worrying about the judgements I presume they damn me with. I might even be making some progress. I’ve only spent about 50% of my time worrying about what my boyfriend’s mother must have thought since I said last weekend, “You’re the sort of woman who’d probably be able to tell a tale or two.” Wink, wink, nudge, nudge. Horrified stare ensued.
Then, out of nowhere, Google started to judge me. Now, you may think my paranoia is reaching new levels, but alas no! I forwarded my blog through gmail and the ads chosen by that clever little computer to appear alongside the email were for good bacteria and incontinence pads. I am the kind of woman who endorses products that alleviate the symptoms of not being able to poo and peeing in your pants.
If Google, a search engine – not even a proper person, judges me as the type of woman to not be able to cope with basic bodily functions, then how am I suppose to believe that others don’t take my ramblings to be proof that the NHS sectioning department is under strain and not performing to full capacity? Just imagine if I had someone to section me privately?
Thank Christ for lefty parents and impoverished boyfriend.