Groovy, baby (but not really, though)

I’m stuck inside my own head, again, as evidenced by the fact that I CAN’T FUCKING DO ANYTHING. I keep trying to push through it by making myself start, and then abandoning whatever I’ve started because it doesn’t feel “right”. This is inevitably followed by an internal spiral where I tell myself unkind things, talk to myself in ways I would never talk to another person.

I know what this is. It’s a pattern that I’ve been repeating over and over throughout my entire adult life. It’s so much like a broken record, a “stuck groove” kind of a thing, and yet I hate that analogy because records are awesome (even if I haven’t been listening to music much or playing any records at all for a little while now).

I’m in the midst of a post-creative crash. It’s the pattern… my pattern. When I’m making something, whether it’s writing, drawing/painting, or something else as it happens from time to time, it’s like I’m high. I get completely carried away by it, and there is this feeling of expansion, and my ego kind of fills up (I was going to say inflates, which basically means the same thing, but that sounds like something pathologically concerning, when what I mean is that I get this feeling of believing in myself and the whatever it is I’m working on, which I think is a good thing).

When I finish the thing, I inevitably feel compelled to share it. I want to talk about that for a moment, because in conversations with friends, with family, even with my therapist, the question of “why” keeps coming up. Why the doing/making of the thing isn’t enough. Why I am never satisfied with having just created something and letting that be its own reward. As if there is something pathological about feeling compelled to share whatever it is that I’ve made. As if that is a pattern that needs breaking, so that I can feel like a complete human based on the act of creation alone.

But can you imagine if everyone who ever wrote a story, made a movie, painted a picture or recorded a song never felt compelled to share it? If everyone kept the art they made to themselves? What kind of a world is that, where art is made and then hidden away? It would be a world without art, literature, film, television, theater, music… The point makes itself.

There are as many reasons for making art as there are people doing it. And for some, making something is the point, and that’s amazing, I love that for them. But the fact that we have books, movies, TV shows, plays, paintings, sculptures, and songs is because some of those artists and creators felt compelled to share them. If you’re someone who enjoys those things, then asking the question “why” when it comes to the compulsion to share one’s creative pursuits with others feels kind of… I don’t know… insulting? Hypocritical, even?

Sharing is a form of connection. People connect with the world outside themselves in different ways. Clearly, I’m not the only one who is compelled to connect by sharing what I’ve made, so… why ask me “why”? And if I can commandeer that word for second, why is it wrong for me to want to share my creative pursuits, but not for others? Asking me why I feel so compelled to share my writing makes me feel dirty and ashamed.

Honestly, even the act of sharing my writing makes me feel dirty and ashamed, in a tug of war with the very compulsion to share it. So yeah, maybe that’s the big “me” problem, and shame is the at the heart of this pattern that I keep reliving. I 100% believe that no one who has ever asked me why I feel so driven to share my writing is intentionally trying to shame me. But I still 100% think it’s an unfair question to ask one person while not asking the others.

Anyway, this has gone off on a bit of a tangent. The point is that I’ve recently become aware of the pattern. I don’t know why it took me so long to see it. When I finally spotted it, it felt good to name it. And I did some exploring as to where it comes from and I’m reasonably certain I’ve identified the sources. I don’t want to get into them specifically, because this isn’t about blaming anyone else for the way I’ve internalized reactions, feedback, support, or lack thereof.

It’s not anyone’s fault that I experience Rejection Sensitivity Dysphoria and that any reaction (or lack of reaction) to something I made and shared, is filtered through that veil, and because of that, accomplishments and kindnesses are immediately filed into a locked compartment where they can’t be embraced or celebrated, while silences and criticisms are amplified and solidified as “truth”.

And it’s not anyone’s fault that my brain LOVES patterns, and latches onto them for better or for worse. That’s what I’m reckoning with now. The fact that recognizing my pattern felt so powerful that I thought that would be enough to break it.

And yet, I’m just sitting here watching it happen all over again, this time with awareness of it, and it’s like, I’m not just letting it happen, I’m committed to it, somehow. Because like I said, I am enamored with patterns. They’re so satisfying to behold. I might be addicted to them. And maybe that’s a neurodivergent thing, too. If it is, I’m not aware of a name for it.

But I’m also getting super sick of it. I don’t want to slip into another multi-year creative void and resulting depression, just because that’s always what happens after I finish making something and try to put it out there. At which point, my RSD ramps up, and every reaction, or lack of one, becomes a reason for me to never try to make or share anything I’ve made ever again. Do I want people to read my stories? Fuck yeah, I do. Do I want them to love what I wrote? Of course. Do I want them to tell me they love my stories? Abso-fucking-lutely! Will I feel good about it when they do? Oh, HELL no.

I’ve recently become aware that there is a recognized term for this. Not impostor syndrome, though I’m fully aware that I’ve got a metric fuck ton of that going on as well, and that it’s related. It’s The Fear of Being Perceived. Not a particularly elegant term, but the fact that I have felt this way for most of my life (and that I can pin down the source, the moment that it emerged) made me think it was just a “me” thing. An event that “traumatized” me and is unique to my own experience. Finding out that it’s connected to ADHD and RSD has been a revelation.

I’ve put “traumatized” into quotation marks because that moment, the event, the source of this feeling that created the groove I’m stuck in, wasn’t something most people would categorize as trauma. It wasn’t physically violent, inherently malevolent, or observably dramatic. It was more insidious than that. I strongly suspect most people would roll their eyes and tell me to “get over it already”. Hell, I say that to myself! But that’s the thing I’m realizing now. It may not have been an outwardly explosive event, but it hurt me like one. And I have felt the ripples of that little drop into the ocean ever since, like a tsunami.

The tsunami fucking sucks. That’s where I am now. And what’s crazy is that I became aware of it this time, and instead of running for the hills, I stood on the beach and just watched it come and submerge me. Well, I guess not completely submerged. I’m underwater, but my head is popping up to get a breath before going under again. Maybe that’s progress? But it’s fucking exhausting. I want out of it, but I’m not that great a swimmer, and stupidly, calling for help triggers The Fear of Being Perceived.

It’s baffling and kind of mortifying to me that every attempt to share myself and my creative endeavors with others, whether it’s a blog post or an entire fucking novel, is an attempt to stand up against The Fear of Being Perceived, consciously or unconsciously… and that I get knocked down by that tsunami with every attempt. I am so done with this cycle of trying and then getting crushed by a wave of self-created internalized rejection. It’s not about the source event anymore. I’m doing it to myself. I’ve been hurting my own feelings for DECADES.

When I wrote Maladaptive, I wasn’t fully aware of this yet. I was aware of something. I knew I was writing it as an attempt to get out of my own head, pull myself out of the tsunami I’d been submerged in since a previous creative project went bust. I even gave Cara that project in the story as a way of giving it some kind of resolution. I think I thought it would manifest something. To say I believed that is probably hyperbole… maybe just hoped for it, very intensely. Whatever, I was high. Like I said, that’s what happens when I’m actively creative. Anyway, I hadn’t spotted the pattern yet, and for whatever reason, I guess I thought this time would be different.

I want to say this is the LAST FUCKING TIME. That even though the internalized rejection is telling me it’s pointless to keep trying, that no one wants what I have to give, that invisibility is my superpower/burden and the void is my comfort zone, that hurting my own feelings in the name of The Fear of Being Perceived is protecting me from some unfathomable inevitable trauma… that I’m going to take the needle off this broken record.

So Maladaptive didn’t “fix” me like I wanted it to. So fucking what? I’m just going back inside my head now to bully myself into ultimate submission? After everything I put Cara through in that story, is that what she would do? I mean, maybe for a little while until she got sick of it, but I wouldn’t let her story end like that. I couldn’t possibly. And let’s be honest. Cara Becker is probably the most egregious self-insert character of all time. If I can give her the power to heal and change, then I can give myself that power, too. Maybe I should take a page from the book of Cara. Maybe I need to let her write the next installment of my story.

But can I trust her with that? Only one way to find out... (Maladaptive 2: Inception, coming soon! No no no no no… that’s… I’m kidding, truly.)

***

How to Hurt Your Own Feelings So Nobody Else Can: 

A Guide to Successful Self-Sabotage

Prerequisites: A severe case of Rejection Sensitivity Dysphoria (RSD), but if that's not available, any form of an inherently sensitive constitution will do. It also helps to have perfectionistic and people pleasing tendencies, and a high amount of naturally occurring anxiety.

Step 1: Accomplish something you’re truly proud of during your youth or another vulnerable, formative period. It can be something creative, academic, a career milestone, or you know what? Even something sports related, if you’re so inclined. I’ll allow it.

Step 2: Bask in the post-accomplishment glow. Let it wash over you, bathe in its glorious light until your ego is inflated with unreasonably high expectations for how the rest of your life should unfold.

Step 3: Receive a diminishing comment from someone you trust, like a parent, teacher, boss, or coach. Something like,” I’m so disappointed in you” or “I thought you were better than that”. If you’re really ambitious, aim for a combination of diminishing comments from multiple trusted sources, to ensure a compound ego fracture.

Step 4: Relive the painful event in an endless loop for an extended period of time, to etch it into your mental, emotional and physical being. Flashbacks are a great way to expediate the trauma-forming process.

Step 5: Since the accomplishment is tied to your self-perceived identity and the expectations of your family and friends, pretend that the diminishing comments had no impact on you while you continue pursuing your goals.

Step 6: Willfully undermine your own future success by aiming low and making yourself as small as possible to prevent disappointing yourself, and most importantly, the individual(s) who bestowed the diminishing comments upon you, even if they are no longer in your life. Repeat steps 4 to 6 as many times as needed until your heart is irreparably broken and your soul is a wasteland of unrealized potential and crushed dreams.

Expected outcome: Completion of these steps will ensure that all subsequent accomplishments feel like failures, giving you the illusion of control as you ease into a self-soothing pattern in which you both seek and reject external validation while upholding the internalized narrative that you are, in fact, a disappointment!

WARNING: Not recommended for... anyone. Before attempting these steps, check to make sure that you have a functioning Sick of Your Own Bullshit Meter™ installed as a prophylactic survival measure.