The White Lily (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
thewhitelily) wrote2007-02-08 11:28 pm
thewhitelily) wrote2007-02-08 11:28 pm
Entry tags:
Why I am a Blithering Idiot
My day was going perfectly today.
Work went relatively smoothly, and at 4:30 the crew broke up for a bit of backyard golf, which was particularly hilarious to watch on the last "hole" which was raised about knee-height off the ground.
After work, I finally knuckled down to go on a shopping spree to help alleviate my dire need of of clothing that hadn't been worn and stretched to the approximate shape of a burlap sack. After some wandering, I found a shop that had shucked the current trend of selling only clothes that make me look about seven months pregnant (which is an impressive feat, given my body shape) and had whole racks of stuff that looked simply smashing on at two for one prices. Bonus.
Then I headed off to the camera shop to obtain the tripod I've been wanting to get hold of for some time, only to find...
A classmate from school was behind the counter.
Darnit. I was pretty sure his name was Isaac, but he didn't have a name badge to confirm it, and I almost turned and ran right there. But he'd spotted me, and then he asked me how I'd been going, and... well, I did what I always do and turned into some kind of pitiable, stuttering moron. By the time I walked out of the shop clutching my hard-won tripod, I was totally traumatised.
The thing is, what does it matter that whatever I said it came out in some bizarre way that made me even more flustered that I just can't convey ideas to a semi-stranger if I don't have the time to edit my words? What does it matter if every time I tried to fix it something more bizarre came out? I don't care if this guy I haven't seen for over six years has an incorrect impression of me.
I honestly don't care. And I'm fairly sure he doesn't either.
So why did I spend the whole trip home jittering, swearing, rerunning conversations out loud, and almost in tears? Why is my arm currently jiggling so that I can have some outlet for the tension? Why do I feel like I'm going to be sick if I even think about eating? Why is it keeping me up at night?
And why, in a couple of weeks time - in a year's time - in five years time, will it suddenly come back to me? I'll be in the shower, or driving somewhere, or watching a movie, or talking to someone, and suddenly it'll overwhelm me again, and I'll be there, and I'll have to find some release for the tension - violent jittering, groaning, swearing, rerunning that conversation again out loud, or completely losing the thread of whatever's currently going on around me in the effort to suppress some combination of the former.
I've got years of social anxiety memories for my subconscious to throw back at me any time it likes. And it likes to rather more frequently than I like it to. If I can't disguise it enough to fool whoever I'm with at the time, they'll look at me like I'm some kind of moron.
I am, of course. They'll ask me what's wrong and I'll have to make up a story about how I've just remembered I'd forgotten to pay a bill or take out the rubbish or something to explain my outburst. Something they can understand as a reason. But it won't be true. And I'll have another socially traumatic memory to add to my collection.
A few years ago, I managed to rationally exorcise them all and give myself a blank slate, by coming to the following realisation: People don't care what they think of me, because people are fundamentally self centred. Only I obsess over what people think of my bizarre actions, just like only they obsess over what I think of theirs. They probably haven't even noticed the bizarreness of my actions, because they're too busy worrying whether I have noticed the bizarreness of theirs. Therefore, I do not need to obsess, because it doesn't make sense to obsess over what people think of things that they're not even thinking about. And even if they *are* thinking about it, why should I care? I'm proud of the person I am, and the life I live. What else matters?
Once again, let me say it, because writing helps. I've even stopped jiggling, now.
Begone, emotional trauma. Seriously. I'll accept the black shame and the flashbacks and the nightmares for something where I've actually done something wrong; it reminds me not to do it again. But for something this trivial?
Just stop wasting my time with such irrational absurdity. Please?
Work went relatively smoothly, and at 4:30 the crew broke up for a bit of backyard golf, which was particularly hilarious to watch on the last "hole" which was raised about knee-height off the ground.
After work, I finally knuckled down to go on a shopping spree to help alleviate my dire need of of clothing that hadn't been worn and stretched to the approximate shape of a burlap sack. After some wandering, I found a shop that had shucked the current trend of selling only clothes that make me look about seven months pregnant (which is an impressive feat, given my body shape) and had whole racks of stuff that looked simply smashing on at two for one prices. Bonus.
Then I headed off to the camera shop to obtain the tripod I've been wanting to get hold of for some time, only to find...
A classmate from school was behind the counter.
Darnit. I was pretty sure his name was Isaac, but he didn't have a name badge to confirm it, and I almost turned and ran right there. But he'd spotted me, and then he asked me how I'd been going, and... well, I did what I always do and turned into some kind of pitiable, stuttering moron. By the time I walked out of the shop clutching my hard-won tripod, I was totally traumatised.
The thing is, what does it matter that whatever I said it came out in some bizarre way that made me even more flustered that I just can't convey ideas to a semi-stranger if I don't have the time to edit my words? What does it matter if every time I tried to fix it something more bizarre came out? I don't care if this guy I haven't seen for over six years has an incorrect impression of me.
I honestly don't care. And I'm fairly sure he doesn't either.
So why did I spend the whole trip home jittering, swearing, rerunning conversations out loud, and almost in tears? Why is my arm currently jiggling so that I can have some outlet for the tension? Why do I feel like I'm going to be sick if I even think about eating? Why is it keeping me up at night?
And why, in a couple of weeks time - in a year's time - in five years time, will it suddenly come back to me? I'll be in the shower, or driving somewhere, or watching a movie, or talking to someone, and suddenly it'll overwhelm me again, and I'll be there, and I'll have to find some release for the tension - violent jittering, groaning, swearing, rerunning that conversation again out loud, or completely losing the thread of whatever's currently going on around me in the effort to suppress some combination of the former.
I've got years of social anxiety memories for my subconscious to throw back at me any time it likes. And it likes to rather more frequently than I like it to. If I can't disguise it enough to fool whoever I'm with at the time, they'll look at me like I'm some kind of moron.
I am, of course. They'll ask me what's wrong and I'll have to make up a story about how I've just remembered I'd forgotten to pay a bill or take out the rubbish or something to explain my outburst. Something they can understand as a reason. But it won't be true. And I'll have another socially traumatic memory to add to my collection.
A few years ago, I managed to rationally exorcise them all and give myself a blank slate, by coming to the following realisation: People don't care what they think of me, because people are fundamentally self centred. Only I obsess over what people think of my bizarre actions, just like only they obsess over what I think of theirs. They probably haven't even noticed the bizarreness of my actions, because they're too busy worrying whether I have noticed the bizarreness of theirs. Therefore, I do not need to obsess, because it doesn't make sense to obsess over what people think of things that they're not even thinking about. And even if they *are* thinking about it, why should I care? I'm proud of the person I am, and the life I live. What else matters?
Once again, let me say it, because writing helps. I've even stopped jiggling, now.
Begone, emotional trauma. Seriously. I'll accept the black shame and the flashbacks and the nightmares for something where I've actually done something wrong; it reminds me not to do it again. But for something this trivial?
Just stop wasting my time with such irrational absurdity. Please?
no subject
Oooh, you got a tripod? Does this mean you're getting into photography? *pets her shiny old tripod*Irrational absurdities really just make up the entirety of human experience. Life just seems to be one long string of those. It's just that some are wrapped up better in faux-meanings and so forth *stops self from going philosophical*
If an unpleasant irrational absurdity is getting in the way of a pleasant one, the best thing to do is let it have it's fun on a piece of paper where you can look at it, poke at it, inspect it, etc., until you feel so distanced from it, so alienated from the concept, that you just cover it up with another one.
*doesn't feel like making sense right now, but agrees that scribbling is the right thing to do*
no subject
I've always loved photography - and since I got a digital camera a few years ago where I could see immediate results (and stopped driving myself insane with glasses + viewfinder), I actually started taking decent shots. Hopefully my shiny new tripod should help me take some even better ones - and get some good photos that actually have me in them, since Hubby is an unbelievably rotten photographer even with a point-and-shoot camera. I'm hoping to also have some fun with low-light photography and blurred water, which just isn't possible to do hand-held. Hurrah!*nods* The main thing that bothers me, I think, is that this is an irrational absurdity that within my own definition of rationality, I choose not to put significance on. But my brain insists on obsessing over stuff that just doesn't rationally matter to me. *pokes it*
Anyway, you're right. Best way to deal is to get it all out and then poke it until you manage to get some distance. And I only had one flashback to it today, which means I think I mostly succeeded.
*thinks you made perfect sense*
Advice I once received
(Anonymous) 2007-02-11 11:46 pm (UTC)(link)Obsess over what other people think of them -> anywhere younger than late 20s
Realise that it is how they feel about themselves that is important rather than what anybody else thinks -> somewhere in the 30s
Realise that nobody was thinking anything about them anyway because everybody else was too busy being self centred -> somewhere in the 40s
Given you incorporated all these points in your post, you must have wisdom well beyond your years. :)
Re: Advice I once received
Maybe my problem is a disparity between the intellectual and emotional maturity - as in, I can rationally go "yeah, this just doesn't matter to me" and on the surface I honestly don't obsess. But deep underneath, my subconscious is obsessing, and it just occasionally bubbles to the surface to bug me. Or maybe it's just life. :)
Also, um... who are you? ;) I looked up your IP address, which brought it down to one of four known lurkers - or one regular who might have forgotten to sign in - and I think I've worked out your exact identity from the turn of phrase. If I've guessed right, I'll be seeing you on Tuesday?