My brother dropped by the other night, and as always, I marveled that we’re related. I’m not a genetics expert, but I would think two people who’re related would have a few traits in common. He and I get along really well, but we could not be more different. By his own admission, he operates purely on logic. Or mostly, any way. I don’t think many people are 100% Dr. Spock, even if they think they are. He is very rational, though, so it’s easy for him to miss the subtext of what people are saying. I, on the other hand, skew heavily to the emotional side, although I can think rationally when I apply myself. My brother is extremely gregarious. To him, a stranger is just a friend he hasn’t met yet. To me, even my friends can feel like strangers at time. He can talk to people all day long. I get tired after about five minutes of human interaction. He loves to drive; I fucking hate it. He’s married with three wonderful children (one who’s now an official adult!), and I can only look at him in admiration and wonderment because I can’t imagine that life for myself. Nor, may I hasten to add, do I want to. I never wanted kids, and I never wanted to get married. Still. It leaves me out of many conversations because the vast majority of women my age are married and/or have kids.
My brother is a realtor. He’s very good at his job. He likes meeting new people and finding the perfect house for them. To me, that sounds like Dante’s Ninth Circle of Hell. The one thing I had to help my brother with was how he emotionally connected with people. We role-played, and he practiced until he was markedly better at it. He likes to have three or four things to do every day. I consider it a job well done if I manage to do one thing a day. He’s better with numbers and computers while I swim in a sea of words. He once told me that he never regretted anything in his life. I stared at him, slack-jawed, unable to process what he’d said to me. Not regret anything? First of all, can anyone really say that?* I mean, not even getting the turkey on rye instead of the ham and cheddar? Secondly, I regret almost everything about my life. One of the reasons I have such a hard time making a decision is because I can always see the negatives about any/all of the choices. Even if it’s not conscious, I often see things as a lose-lose situation.
My brother has no problem plunging into new situations, trusting that they will turn out for the best. He’s been burn a few times because of this, but more often than not, the results have been a net positive. I, on the other hand, drag my feet over every goddamn decision I have to make. The bigger the decision, the longer I take in making it. Obviously, this has caused me to miss many opportunities that might have otherwise changed my life. This is not something I’m proud of, but it’s not easily changeable. The weird thing is that once I make up my mind, I am committed to my decision to the point of ridiculousness. My best friend remembers when I told her I was getting two cats and being astounded by it because I announced it out of the blue. I’d been thinking about it for years, however, but I just hadn’t talked about it with anyone before actually doing it.
It’s the same with my tattoos. I wanted to get one for several years before I went out and got one. When I finally decided to get my tattoo, I had to get it right at that moment. My BFF** and I found a place that was open at that time (nearly midnight), which, unfortunately, was manned by the owner’s nephew who was learning how to tattoo from his uncle. In other words, I got a terrible tattoo. What I didn’t know at the time was that I’m keloid, so I scar twice as badly as other people. My yin-yang in a sun tattoo made me want to cry, and I was embarrassed to have it until I got it covered up by a gorgeous lotus blossom in flames. (See the first picture). You can barely see the tattoo underneath, and only if you’re looking closely.
That’s actually an interesting parallel to my life in general. I have many emotional scars from a traumatic past, and while I’ve been very adept at hiding them, you can see them if you look closely. Or, if I’m pushed past my limit, then the veneer cracks, and all my brokenness pours out of me. One thing I really admire about my brother is how focused he is on moving from point A to point B. He lived the same childhood I did, though not necessarily with all the accompanying traumas, and he’s managed to live a productive life. He’s never been to therapy, whereas I’ve been in and out of it since I was fifteen. He rarely thinks about the past–I wallow in it all the time. I feel as if I’m stuck in a quagmire from which I may never free myself.
No matter how much progress I’ve made, there’s still so much further to go. I get tired sometimes of always trying to better myself. But, it’s hard not to think, “What the fuck have I done with my life?” Who would really miss me if I were dead? Maybe a dozen people, but that’s it. My cats, but they’d forget me within a week or two as long as they got steadily fed and pet. It’s hard not to think that my life is just a blip on the ass that is the universe. Sometimes, it’s comforting to know that I’m insignificant because one of my problems is thinking that I have an inordinate negative effect on the world around me. Other times, however, it fucks with my mind. What is the point when I’m not even a whisper of a wind rippling the surface of the ocean of life?
Do not worry. I am not suicidal. Just pensive.
I’m forty-five years old, and I’m still struggling with the traumas I experienced when I was a child. Not just the ones inside my family, but the ones I endured daily at school. My brother was picked on as well, but instead of making him a quivering mess such as I am, it only made him stronger. He got called the same names I did. His reaction is to make Asian jokes himself. They make me cringe, but we all deal with it in a different way. He’s not interested in Asian issues. He was a Republican for a long time because of Christian values. I say that without the usual air quotes I would use because he’s devout, but not an asshole. The one thing we have in common is that we’re both socialists, and he’s done a lot of charitable things, such as participating in Habitat for Humanity.
I wish I were more like him in being flexible. He embraces change; indeed, he seeks it. I push it away from me until it becomes a matter of change or die. I wouldn’t say I’m OCD, but I do have compulsive/obsessive tendencies. I’ve written about this before, but it’s so frustrating to me. I have a dozen novels I’ve written as well as countless short stories. Yet, none of them are published, though I have tried to enter contests in the past, but I never won. I gave up after a few years of that. They sit in a metaphoric drawer, moldering away, even though I know that my writing is better than a lot of the shit that is out there now. Still. There’s a little voice in the back of my brain, whispering, “No one wants to read that drivel. You don’t have anything to contribute to–well, anything.”
It’s the same with my blog. I know I have to push my own writing on social media in order to get any traction. I also know I should go to other blogs and interact with people who are in my target demo, but I recoil at doing that for many reasons. One, the aforementioned low self-esteem. How can I sell what I don’t believe in? Two, I don’t like foisting myself on people. The idea makes me break out in a cold sweat, so the thought of me sending links to people, asking them to RT, is a no-go. Mentally, anyway. I know I have to do it at some point, but I’m not quite there yet. Three, all of this butts up against my self-consciousness about my inability to interact as a normie. I’m not good with chit-chat or forums because my mind goes all over the place. Details and focus are not my strong points, unfortunately.
Basically, my insecurities are making me trip myself up in getting where I want to go with my life. The two main things I want to do are act–which I haven’t mentioned at all in this post, I realize. I’ll get to it, though, believe you me–and being a published author of fiction. My blog being viable is third on my wishlist, nipping closely at the heels of the other two. I am writing a blog post every day at least five days a week, and that’s more than I’ve done in quite some time. I’ve mentioned my blog on Twitter (pinning a tweet about it to the top of my TL) and Facebook, but that’s as far as I’ve gotten in terms of marketing. I see other writers endlessly tweeting and posting their links on their FB pages, and while I admire them for it, I’m not sure I can do it. I’m not dedicated enough or forthcoming enough. I’m quite thin-skinned, and while I’m good at hiding it, even the mildest criticism hurts me momentarily. I take things way too personally, which is not an asset if you’re putting yourself out there online.
I also haven’t written fiction in some time, which is making me feel bad and guilty. It’s not because I don’t have ideas in my head–I do. It’s not because I don’t have half-written stories which are begging to be finished–I do. It’s not because I don’t have a goddamn anthology more than halfway done, and at least two more stories which can be included in it–I do. It’s because–well, actually, I’m not sure why I don’t work on my fiction. I think because…no, I don’t know why. I’ll check back with you after thinking about it some more.
I also am not completely sure why I don’t audition for a play, even in community theater. It’s partly because I have terrible performance anxiety when I try out, to the point of forgetting my lines. No matter how much I practice, I freak out and forget my lines. No, not every time, but enough to make it even more anxiety-inducing to try audition. I loved performing, though, and I miss it terribly. There is no high like performing on stage, and I want to get back to it if I can. I just need to find the motivation and get past my fear–which is pretty much the story of my life. I know what I need to do–I just don’t know if I can do it. Also the story of my life. Sadly.
I’ve been thinking of trying therapy again. I think it might be time.
*Obviously, yes, as he just had. But it really struck me as ludicrous.
**The same one. She’s been my partner in crime for over twenty years. We’re going to be sitting side by side in an old folks’ home forty years from now, heckling everyone who passes by.