Wednesday, November 16, 2011

Just because she comes off strong, doesn't mean she didn't fall asleep crying, and even though she acts like nothing's wrong, maybe she's just really good at lying.

I've been noticing that admitting to possible personality disorders breeding in you is the in-thing right now, and for the first time in my life, I'm flagging down the bandwagon, because, oh, do I ever want to get on it. Don't judge me, yet, because, hey, if I wallowed in the mire forever, it would hardly get me anywhere. However, this has always been a space where I talk about things I don't normally talk about (it's not really surprising how THAT works, but that doesn't mean I don't talk shit in real life. I do, just of a different kind.) and this is also where I can make the jokes I do, because I don't have to worry about people getting them, which I constantly do. There's your level one anxiety-disorder right there.

I suppose, there could be multiple issues with my personality, but I've thought about them long and hard and narrowed down the root of all of them to one main problem: intensity.

When I say 'intensity', I'm using a term I can apply to every single emotion I've ever had. I mean, even when I have a tiny chocolate, the back of my throat tingles intensely for the first fifteen full seconds. Which, I know, is not so much an emotion, as much as my throat telling me to have my stupid tonsils taken out, but you get the point, right?

For example, we all get asked on multiple occasions daily to do favors. Stuff like your friend telling you to pick up a package they need or a colleague asking you to review their report, etc. Now imagine you've been asked for one such favor and you're completely swamped with work of your own. You prioritize and come to the conclusion that it's not always possible to do what you've been asked to do and that's that. You go about your day in the most normal fashion there is. Life goes on, what's for dinner, et al. Not for me, though. Every single time I get asked to do something like this and I can't, because I just don't have the time, (which I don't, more often than not) I go on full breakdown mode. I compulsively obsess over it long enough to feel guilty for not doing something that wasn't my job in the first fucking place and then torturing my mind over it. 

Speaking of compulsive obsessions, here's my other 'problem'. Everyone's obsessive-compulsive to a certain degree, that's a scientifically proven fact. This phenomena has also evolved on a mass-scale over times, giving birth to things such as rituals, festivals and, guess what, culture. Most of it doesn't make any practical sense, but we go on keeping with our beliefs anyway lest the world may fall to pieces. That, however, doesn't make me feel any better about the fact that I can only write numbers by spelling them out completely (unless I'm writing down the time), that it annoys me if there's an inch of a difference in my daily travel routine, I mentally calculate the number of seconds every daily activity takes me to compare any irregularities that occur and I'm talking calculating the number of seconds it takes me to go down the stairs at the metro station (which is, roughly, 6 seconds) type of stuff. So, yes, I measure my entire fucking day.

Of course, the winner of the cigar is the paranoia. I'm not afraid of heights, but scared shitless of planes. Some smells scare me, some questions scare me (which is normal, I guess), dusk scares me and fills me with mini-bouts of depression, and then, obviously, there's the reason I always wear the most comfortable shoes I have - an impending apocalypse. I'm not saying that I have firm beliefs that plagues will break out, spread and wipe out the world or zombies will run amok. I'm not even considering the possibility of a nuclear war. It's just that if something does go wrong, I want to be prepared and I suppose you can't do that with tiny brogues or enormous heels.

I'm tired of playing out every scenario of my day in advance in my mind, every way it could transpire, and then, being disappointed when it doesn't even come close. I'm tired of paying equal attention to all stupid tabs on my browser, because otherwise I wouldn't be 'fair'. Most of all, I think my shoes are silently plotting my death from having been shut in the closet too long.

No comments: