Imposter syndrome, a lack of confidence, and a constant changing and lack of clear goals seems to stilt and hinder my blogging and social media activity. I don’t even know if I care to change this obvious flaw.
I think a note I have been trying to hit with this blog at least, is authenticity. I’ve spent so much of my life adapting to the expectations, needs, and demands of others, finding the core of truth in who I am and what I do, is difficult.
I’m going to screw up. I’m going to write shitty posts that don’t appeal to much of anyone. I’m going to post things with a distinct lack of polish and glaring errors. I’m going to miss deadlines and flake out from time to time. Not everything I write will be deep, soul searching, relevant, or significant.
And that’s ok. I have to keep telling myself that it is alright to be human. To be flawed, to fuck up, to be fucked up. Because I am.
Parts of me are broken. I have jagged edges. Some areas are patched and held together with duct tape and glue.
And that’s ok.
I’m going to get angry and scared and hurt. I am a little dark and brooding. I’m a little sensitive, and a little naive. I can be childish and petty and cruel, and I hate myself for it.
I can be obsessive. I often am. That’s how I’m wired. My brain likes to torment me with loops of thoughts, and it’s almost guaranteed to be negative.
I push people away. I have my reasons. Autism may be in part to blame. I’ve been hurt. I have my triggers. I’ve been shamed, silenced, abused, bullied, and I have shitty coping skills. I’m working on it.
I used to think I was alone in feeling like an alien. That being lonely was just what I was destined for. Thanks to a diagnosis and some more progressive forums, I’m learning otherwise.
There is always a part of me that is easily seduced by the idea of being one of “cool kids”. Years of TV watching and reading that perpetuated this idea that you need a group of pals, and they’ll accept you and support you and life will be great as a result.
Though I knew from experience that television and the media do not reflect reality, I was still seduced by it. I wanted it to be true. I wanted to accept people, to believe they could be decent and kind and understanding. That the face they presented you with was who they were underneath.
But we all wear masks. Mine have become such a part of me that I forget where they end and I begin. They are layered, one over another.
I have my, “oh right, I’m a girl mask”. Then there’s my, “I’m a wife mask,” which is interlinked with my “caretaker mask.” Then, my “mom mask” and all the expectations and judgement that comes with that role. Then, my “this is how you socialize, right?” mask. Oh, and my, “I’m a good worker mask” which also uses the “i haz social skills mask.”
I know I’m not the only one who gets lost behind the masks. But I don’t think other people are as bothered by it. Who struggle with it as much as people like I do.
I think some people enjoy the role playing. Life is a game, other people are pieces to be played. The very idea of manipulating or causing harm to others makes me uncomfortable. I don’t like to be played, why would I do the same to others?
And sure, I like to wear a costume. I like to feel fancy and change up things. But I hate feeling fake. I am a mimic, and actor, a wearer of masks because it is expected. Because I’ve been conditioned to do it to avoid punishment and social exile.
Lately I’ve reminded myself to be okay with the discomfort of some social exile. To ignore the judgement and opinions of others. People like to talk, to control others and create their own narrative. That’s their way. I don’t like it, but I can’t change it with wishful thinking or self-loathing.
No one is going to see my pain and change their asshole ways even if I made 13 tapes. The truth of the matter is, people don’t care. And I have to remind myself to be okay with that.
All I want is to be appreciated from time to time. To have my existence noticed on occasion. And for those who I go out of my way to care for, to show some reprococity of respect and care.
This blog, it’s tiny and occasional influx of readers reflects my modest desires. And that’s okay.