A-Z April: Stream of Consciousness

You can thank Clark for this later – I have no idea what kind of ride it’s going to be. Bumpy, most likely because my mood has become…

Well, let’s see. There are the physical factors – I’m hungry (yet not hungry enough to get of my butt and go prepare food) and when in that state, Grumpy and Snarky are usually the next two dwarves to take up residence in my brain; it’s dark (too lazy to get up and turn a light on) and the darkness is cloying and pulling me down; and I need to pee. But that’s on purpose because I once heard that you make better decisions when you’re busting, so I’m hoping it will improve this post. We’ll see.

I’ve also turned off my music.

I only do that for two reasons – first because I’m reading something and want to be able to ‘see’ it better and focus more, by removing the sound; second because the noise has become an irritation, and this generally heralds a total loss of humour. Sad to say the latter state prevails at this time.

I also wish my inner voice weren’t so pompous – seriously, who even says ‘latter’ or ‘prevails’?

It doesn’t matter. I am struck amidships by a crashing sense of inadequacy, brought on by a number of factors, and instilled through life-long lack of care to uninstall a programmed spiral of self-loathing. I know (intellectually) that were I to magically alter myself to somehow be as physically appealing as I’d like, this would be the only difference (well, and I’d be a damn sight more smug/arrogant/vain), because it would do nothing to make me a better writer, more robust as a person, or more acceptable as a human being. Given my great shallowness, it might even work against the latter, but there you have it.

I fell into the trap of comparison (again) and the rot is starting to show. Though it shouldn’t doesn’t matter one jot, because I know (intellectually) that Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and there are plenty of people who behold me just fine, the one I am beholden to is my mind’s eye, which is constantly disappointed whenever it sees a mirror, and particularly so when held up next to others I consider beautiful. Not to mention that being beheld as ‘whatever’ still doesn’t make me a better person, and really that’s the place I should be striving to change. I know, I KNOW!

But no, I watch, downcast, as those warships of negative thoughts unleash volley after volley upon my island of self, and it begins to look as terrible as it feels. Perhaps that’s where the validation lies – that seething envy of those who have the genes to be gorgeous, or the strength of character to not care – that nitpicking and destructive voice which tells me that either way I don’t measure up, and so I can coil in the rot, licking my wounds and knowing I’m right – because as long as I buy into this ‘looks’ business as a means of establishing worth, I also prevent myself from becoming worthwhile, and so I have no fear of success, having guaranteed my failure at every level.

I ask not for placations: I am not beautiful – I just am.

Meantime my inner self sneers disappointment that this post is so clouded by hunger (which will only feed the fat rot) and the memory of how I discovered that by lying on my back and pushing my hips into the air, the new fad of a ‘bikini bridge‘ is laughably achieveable, even for one who is still too fat for…well…anything thin.

And then the vicious undermining insult of being Not There Yet (wherever ‘there’ is) – finding that your boobs will shrink in the diet even while other parts do not, and that seven rounds with the ugly stick won’t burn the calories harboured, like fugitives, now I can’t exercise them away.

Vanity, vanity, all is vanity. And you wonder why I have a blog!?

#Irony – having just this moment been told that I’d “understand in 15 years” why a friend is considering Botox, whilst knowing that if it weren’t for this trip to ‘Merica I’m planning, I’d be saving for surgeries to give myself the emotional break of a look I’m happy with, whilst simultaneously hating myself for being so shallow and prepared to spend so much on something so worthless, rather than taking the sensible option of slogging to find value in myself in spite of how I think I look.

At some point I’ll have to find a reason to develop a sense of self-worth with any kind of positive attached to it. Earlier today, in the sunshine, without comparisons, it was easy and I truly didn’t care. But then clouds happened, outside and inside, and finally that point of physical comparison (in spite of having just had a load of intellectual banter and fun elsewhere) which immediately sent my sense of self to its knees, wondering on the one hand why the hell I can’t just, please, be prettier, and on the other why I can’t just be content with having an attractive personality (which is more easily faked).

Because ultimately, I don’t deserve it.

“I’m worthless and need to somehow be better before I earn the right to feel something as wonderful as ‘attractive’. Nicer. Prettier. Kinder. Thinner. Cleverer. Usefuller. More capable. More confident. More worthwhile. But never valuable, because valuable is unattainable, and so I shall never feel attractive.”
 I’m back on the Crazy Carousel and wondering if the only way to stop it is to go and eat. And whether eating will raise my mood so I don’t care, or feed the feeling that I’ve made things worse by allowing the hunger to take control. 

Apparently once I find a strong enough reason to battle the carousel and its tailspins, it should be (yes a slog but) plain sailing. The reason will give me strength to hold onto to dismiss the warships and their negative thoughts and their grenades of things I still struggle to see as lies (they ring so true as they explode into familiar shrapnel wounds).

So HERE is the seduction of inadequacy, in all its vile, repugnant glory: I’ve learned that I matter, that my input is thought well of, that people like what I write, that I’m reasonably good at providing support/encouragement/solace/whatever, and I have a portion of my brain which is quite capable of nullifying all of those factors against the one, glaringly obvious one – I’m just not fucking PRETTY enough.

Allegedly there are people who are physically disabled who hate their appearance less than I hate mine.

Fascinating, the twists of the damaged human psyche…


Yes, I’m painfully aware I’m in a minority of people who find anything wrong with this…

NB. I tried to remove the option for comments. On purpose, but Disqus complained, so they’re back.

I don’t want to know, because I already do, yaknow? This isn’t meant to be some snivelling, desperate search for validation or approval, nor is it meant to be a cry for help or an opportunity to receive a piece of your mind. It’s ‘stream of consciousness’ and purely what’s going on in my brain at the time of writing.

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