The Five Strands of A Sedentary Empress

The Placebo of Self-Intimidation

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In a way, I am more easily intimidated than I used to be. Though I've gathered a little bit of knowledge along the way, not all of it is beneficial. I am now too familiar with words like 'rejection', 'delusion', 'deprecation'. I left most of my ego in a pothole I hit somewhere on the blackened roadway.

For some, intimidation is a catalyst. If there's one kernel of boldness in their mental makeup, they use it to do battle with all the doubt they feel on their necks, sometimes winning, or so they'd like to think. For me, believing anyone expects me to do anything is one step close to failure. Because I am generally defiant by nature, I have a hard time doing anything someone wants me to. It's like I'm giving in, somehow, like I'm making a sacrifice by doing something that wasn't my idea. I know that they want me to and I'm angry at myself for not caring more about what makes me happy, so I do nothing. As I sit, steeping in my special blend of rebellion and insolence, I am consciously aware of my stupidity, but this does nothing. I often feel physically incapable of bending to another's whimsy, my body immobilized by something I can't define, so I do nothing. I steep. I sit.

Look how far this has got me.

I suppose intimidating myself is what I'm best at, and like an epidural, it takes away my ability to move. Whereas I used to believe life was limitless, I now know that failure is part of it all, but I still find it tough to face. What I do, then, is ignore all the challenges I think will wind me the most. To me, it has never made much sense to work up a sweat for something that will never bring about rewards. I was addicted to my own insecurity, second-guessing my abilities which took away most of my options. Somehow, this doesn't seem very bright on my part. There are also those people who have the habitual need to make others feel insecure by making loud, critical statements about them, constantly challenging them, feeding their own filthy habit. This is just another form of self-loathing, though. If you're okay with who you are, you don't feel the need to feed on the cracks in another's skin.

Part of the reason it took me so long to enter FTL was because I honestly didn't feel like I measured up to most of the writers who regularly took part. More than once I came close to entering, but then I'd hit the back button and return to relative anonymity, because it was comfortable there, and there were no expectations. Then, inexplicably, there was a day when it seemed like a good idea, because I found myself conscious again, free from the second thoughts and the fear. It didn't matter suddenly that there were close relationships between some of the players, or that I was going to be writing up against people who seemed to have a natural talent for getting their point across. I got off the junk. I got clean and breathed deeply. I typed out 'I'm in'. It went well.

So, I have to wonder if there's something to this whole 'warrior spirit rising from the ashes of complacency and self-deprecation' thing. That's my quote, no one else's. I mean, when I really put an effort forward and ignore all the doubts, all the evil voices in my ear, I tend to come out okay. Why all the hiding, then? Why am I afraid to be heard? To be seen?

I think it boils to expectations, again, laced with laziness. If you do well at something, you know you're expected to at least keep the momentum going even if you can't clear the bar you raised. Sometimes it's too much of a commitment, sometimes you just want to be happy with the small successes because they can't be taken away. At the end of the day, though, most of us do not want to be regarded as 'stupid' or 'useless', and doing something as simple as entering a journalling contest with people you don't really know, under a name which isn't yours, can still be a difficult thing. As much as I'd like to say that I don't care what people think of how I write or what I believe, it isn't entirely true. Even the comments which come from people who clearly don't know what they're talking about sting a little bit. I think it's because they have the audacity to thinkI'm wrong, and it eats at me, makes me hate myself for letting it rip at my insides. Still, constructive, respectful criticism usually causes me to think a little more. This is the stuff which makes for learning.

I'm getting closer to be being past worrying about whether or not what I write pleases everyone, though. More often than not, the major criticisms tend to come from those whose writing I don't particularly enjoy, anyway. I seldom make comments about what I find boring or exasperating in other people's work. I don't think it will serve a purpose, making the writer angry with my perceptions. If they ask me flat out for my opinion, I give it, and if I trust that the writer would value my thoughts, then I'll offer them, but more often than not, I'm clicking off the page anonymously, taking my sharp words with me.

I suppose, then, that self-intimidation is like a misguided belief in a drug that only makes us sicker; a full-bodied submersion into thick-watered distortion. When you're off it, when you stop pushing it on others, you will find that you can see better, perhaps even swim.