Gotta get this down while it is still fresh in my mind because if I turn my back on it for even a moment, it will be pushed back into the shadows of my mind by the fact that I really don’t want to talk about it.
Which, as usual, makes it exactly the kind of thing I need to talk about.
Basically, as I was getting out of the car to do my shopping last night, I had one of those moments where I catch myself thinking something very telling.
Something about “putting my thumb on the scale so I can get to the ‘sweet relief’ of giving up as fast as possible”.
Translating from FruTalk(tm), the idea is that in stressful, potentially anxiety provoking situations when things might go well or go bad, I push down hard on the “bad” side of the scale in order to get to the feeling of blessed relief when I give up, surrender, or otherwise negatively resolve the tension as soon as possible.
Or something like that. These are new and very tricky to handle thoughts so forgive me if I express them with less than my usual aplomb.
It’s essentially a way to cheat myself in service of that nasty failure addiction. The dirty truth is that giving up can feel fantastic. All the pressure and tension and anxiety lets go at once but the endorphins are still in your bloodstream so you feel wonderful.
Thus you are quite literally rewarded for failure. And it’s certainly an easier and more reliable reward that whatever one gets for being victorious.
I’ve not been victorious a lot in my life for reasons this post should make obvious.
I honestly think this thumb on the scale phenomenon (doo doooo dedoot do) is a central mechanism of my self-defeat, which is why it is making me so uneasy to talk about it.
Which is good. Very good. I can feel the locks and chains loosening in my mind as the clear clean light of consciousness chases away the dirty demons of the dark and cleanses my mind in the process.
Consider yourself busted, Mister Thumb-on-the-scale, or Mister TOTS. I’m on to you now and can start figuring out how to counter you.
Step 1 : learn to catch you in action again. When I start to feel tense and overwhelmed, I will know you are there. In the shadows of my anxiety, you will lurk. When my daily psychodramas unfold, you’ll be in the audience shouting “Get to the good part already!”.
And at first, I will just watch you. No conflict. No turmoil. No struggle. Just you doing what you you do while I just….. watch.
You can handle that right? I’m not doing anything. Just…. watching.
But no, you can’t handle it, can you? I can feel you melting away, your protective coating of slime sizzling away under my calm and steady gaze.
You are a creature of subconscious scuttling in the shadows. Direct observation is your Kryptonite and I am going to Lex Luther you to death with it.
Because fuck you. Go ahead and squirm,. Squeal. Thrash around as you face your final judgment for your crimes.
Then turn into a waft of dirty smoke and disappear into the bright blue sky.
Bye bye, you horrid creature. Burn in hell.
Or don’t. Just get the fuck out of my mind.
More after the break.
A million little failures
Whatever I do, I’m doing it wrong.
Or at least, that’s how I have felt for as long as I can remember.
My early childhood taught me that I could not do anything right and that I should just wait till someone else does it for me because if I do it myself, someone else will just have to come along and do it again the right way anyhow while getting mad at me for making extra work for them by trying to do it myself.
Of course, nobody had the time or patience to teach me to do it right. I was rather shy and hesitant (for some reason) and teaching me would have meant slowing down and working with me slowly and patiently till I could get it right.
And there was no way anyone was going to do that for ME.
Looking back, I think it’s probably a good thing (and possibly not a coincidence) that I don’t have a lot of memories of life before school.
I think there was a lot of bad, angry, negative shit going down (three guesses as to which Larry Donald Bertrand was responsible) that I was far too young to understand, but which I bore the brunt of because I was the dog that got kicked.
I was soft and sweet and timid and I didn’t fight back, so I was an ideal target for the rage and impatience my Dad was pumping into the rest of the family and the rest of the family took out on me.
And each other, presumably. Like I said, I don’t remember.
My sister Catherine in particular was always around to be angry at me for not doing things right. She was very critical of me and I think she did me a lot of harm. I think she owns the lion’s share of the blame for this feeling of constant failure of mine.
That, and my hand-eye coordination issues. I was always very clumsy (possibly because nobody played with me physically as a kid?) and so seemingly simple things were very difficult for me.
An enlightened and merciful family would have realized I was not exactly thriving and got me all the help I need while making allowances for my issues.
But it was far too fun to dump on me for that to even be on the horizon.
And my sad little self was far too timid and bewildered to even know I was being treated poorly, let alone do anything about it.
I blamed myself for being broken, just like everybody else did.
Like I still do, sad to say.
I should seek a professional medical diagnosis for my motor issues. That could go a long way towards making me feel less utterly abandoned to my own incompetence.
Maybe on some level, I am still looking for someone to do everything for me because I know I can’t get it right by myself and if I try, I’ll just get in trouble.
Well sorry kiddo, but it ain’t gonna happen.
Unless I get that diagnosis. Hmmm.
I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.