Stuff's about to get real uncomfortably personal, so fair warning
Here's a secret. I've figured out how to intoxicate myself (fancymantalk for get high) without consuming a thing. In fact, I don't have to do a thing at all. It's brilliant really. Here's all that needs to happen: Someone has to say or do something that makes me think, that makes me really truly believe, in my heart of hearts, that they don't think I'm a good person, that they think me gross or immoral or incompetent. Now, they don't have to think it, but I have to believe that they do. Then, give it a moment to really settle in for me, and that's when the fun begins.
The eyes are the first to go. Actually, they might not be, but they're for sure the first thing I notice. They lose focus and turn my field of view into an overlap of two translucent images. They won't retain a solid image for more than five, ten seconds tops. Not that it would matter either way, since by that time I've also lost any semblance of my former ability to concentrate on anything. Sticking a movie in front of me or trying to start up a conversation is a waste of time, I'll comprehend neither.
All of this is part of the larger trend of my body working at 5% capacity. Moving is an ordeal. My mind no longer has the direct control over my body. It's like I'm controlling a puppet's strings. A puppet with like 50 miles of slack and a damn heavy rope. So I can yank the cord connected to its arm with immense force, but hardly any of the motion registers in the puppet itself. So I tell my body to ask my friend "What's that?" and what comes out is "wzzzt". If the same friend tells a joke, my eyebrows flicker up and my mouth does a little twitch. My body's basically shut down and been rendered utterly useless.
But my mind is working at 200% capacity. I know this because the motherfucker is scared shitless and all of that 200% is being used to scream "NONONONONONO". Ultimately, what's happening is whoever's running the show upstairs has decided to slam the "CODE RED" button because they think the person is going to hurt me. Because if you really truly hate the very essence of another person, you don't just wish them gone, you wish them pain. And surely if someone said anything remotely critical of me, that must mean they want to hurt me. So my mind and body go on the defensive. There's a tiny man in a dark corner in the far reaches of my head who's shouting and insisting "This is completely irrational, they're not going to hurt you." But why would we listen to him? Just because he has "logic" on his side? (Yes, you idiot, that's exactly why) And so we flip the switch into survival mode. Unfortunately, not a cool survival mode where your muscles tense and you become a superhuman version of yourself ready to take on the world. It's more like a possum playing dead. Barely a rung above comatose.
Lucky for me, this hadn't happened in direct confrontation, in real life. It was almost always over social media or from thinking over something that had happened earlier in the day. The actual attacks happened at home, where I was able to recede into the comforts of solitude and under the protection of blanket and bed. I could just curl up and figuratively suck my figurative thumb (I want it to be known I do not suck my thumb) and wait for the storm to pass. Once my body was unharmed and realized there was no danger, it could start recuperating. Even then, for the remainder of the day, I'd be emotionally crippled and incapable of usual levels of productivity, still paranoid and fearful, sensing threats to my safety that were invisible to everyone around me. But the bulk of the stress, the attack itself, was always confined to the security of my home.
That stopped being true last week during a rehearsal for MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM SHOWINGS OCTOBER 5, 6 AND 7. This really shouldn't have been a surprise to me, a kid who's incapacitated by criticism probably shouldn't take ventures into the performing arts. But I did anyway. Funnily enough, the performance had nothing to do with what happened. Someone asked me to move my stuff just slightly more aggressively than I would have liked. They weren't mean, they weren't malicious, in all likelihood they weren't being serious, but that's not how the motherfucker upstairs took it. He took it and ran, shutting down most routine operations and concentrating on fear, fear, fear. He had me stay in my chair, warning me that any move I make, especially in the vicinity of the person who asked me to move my stuff, could provoke someone. And surely I knew, he told me, that everyone in that room hated me. They were all just waiting to do something. Waiting for an opportunity to tear you to shreds. And when they do, he added, there's nothing you can do. They've got you surrounded.
Despite the immensely terrifying and imminent threat, I could have handled it given time. Had I been able to sit in my seat, I would've eventually recovered. But I was going to be onstage in a number of minutes and while Shakespeare has been performed in a wide range of dialects, I doubt the bard's eloquence or wit would come across as well amidst slurred speech or (an option that was becoming increasingly more likely) tears.
The little man in the corner piped up just loud enough to point out that my friend Steve was across the room. He could help, the little man yelled. There's no help, the man in the control room shot back. I made my way to him, an ordeal that at the time seemed akin to the Fellowship's long and treacherous journey to Mordor. Steve, without missing a beat, helped me out and talked me down and I recovered quicker than I ever had and got onstage and immediately rocked the fuck out of that performance with my eyes still freshly puffy. The Flu Game doesn't hold a candle.
Now, dear reader o'mine, you might've noticed something about my tone here (and indeed, in my life in general). But it probably seems especially inappropriate here. How I'm padding every deeply personal revelation under fifty layers of sarcasm, self-effacement, and metaphor. See, I've always fancied myself a bit of a badass fighter antihero type and growing up on nerd pop culture, I've tried to take cues from the Han Solos and Mal Reynolds of the world - the coolest guys don't show their hand, which I'm doing by writing this post. It's not that they don't have struggles, but if you really have a struggle, then you're not gonna talk about it. Tragic backstories are told through flashbacks or dramatic reveals, not expositional chitchat. Talking to Ra-- Steve did a lot to assuage that feeling. Not for a moment did he question it nor did his concern for the situation ever dip. Frankly, a lot of the tears (figurative tears, of course, I'm a man. For real, though I don't suck my thumb) were more out of pleasant surprise than panic. It was ridiculously validating, it helped me convince myself that what I was going through was very much real, even if I asked for help. I definitely wouldn't have been able to write this post if not for Steve. And even now, I still have to cushion it with jokes - it still feels wrong to talk about it.
All of this is part of the larger trend of my body working at 5% capacity. Moving is an ordeal. My mind no longer has the direct control over my body. It's like I'm controlling a puppet's strings. A puppet with like 50 miles of slack and a damn heavy rope. So I can yank the cord connected to its arm with immense force, but hardly any of the motion registers in the puppet itself. So I tell my body to ask my friend "What's that?" and what comes out is "wzzzt". If the same friend tells a joke, my eyebrows flicker up and my mouth does a little twitch. My body's basically shut down and been rendered utterly useless.
But my mind is working at 200% capacity. I know this because the motherfucker is scared shitless and all of that 200% is being used to scream "NONONONONONO". Ultimately, what's happening is whoever's running the show upstairs has decided to slam the "CODE RED" button because they think the person is going to hurt me. Because if you really truly hate the very essence of another person, you don't just wish them gone, you wish them pain. And surely if someone said anything remotely critical of me, that must mean they want to hurt me. So my mind and body go on the defensive. There's a tiny man in a dark corner in the far reaches of my head who's shouting and insisting "This is completely irrational, they're not going to hurt you." But why would we listen to him? Just because he has "logic" on his side? (Yes, you idiot, that's exactly why) And so we flip the switch into survival mode. Unfortunately, not a cool survival mode where your muscles tense and you become a superhuman version of yourself ready to take on the world. It's more like a possum playing dead. Barely a rung above comatose.
Lucky for me, this hadn't happened in direct confrontation, in real life. It was almost always over social media or from thinking over something that had happened earlier in the day. The actual attacks happened at home, where I was able to recede into the comforts of solitude and under the protection of blanket and bed. I could just curl up and figuratively suck my figurative thumb (I want it to be known I do not suck my thumb) and wait for the storm to pass. Once my body was unharmed and realized there was no danger, it could start recuperating. Even then, for the remainder of the day, I'd be emotionally crippled and incapable of usual levels of productivity, still paranoid and fearful, sensing threats to my safety that were invisible to everyone around me. But the bulk of the stress, the attack itself, was always confined to the security of my home.
That stopped being true last week during a rehearsal for MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM SHOWINGS OCTOBER 5, 6 AND 7. This really shouldn't have been a surprise to me, a kid who's incapacitated by criticism probably shouldn't take ventures into the performing arts. But I did anyway. Funnily enough, the performance had nothing to do with what happened. Someone asked me to move my stuff just slightly more aggressively than I would have liked. They weren't mean, they weren't malicious, in all likelihood they weren't being serious, but that's not how the motherfucker upstairs took it. He took it and ran, shutting down most routine operations and concentrating on fear, fear, fear. He had me stay in my chair, warning me that any move I make, especially in the vicinity of the person who asked me to move my stuff, could provoke someone. And surely I knew, he told me, that everyone in that room hated me. They were all just waiting to do something. Waiting for an opportunity to tear you to shreds. And when they do, he added, there's nothing you can do. They've got you surrounded.
Despite the immensely terrifying and imminent threat, I could have handled it given time. Had I been able to sit in my seat, I would've eventually recovered. But I was going to be onstage in a number of minutes and while Shakespeare has been performed in a wide range of dialects, I doubt the bard's eloquence or wit would come across as well amidst slurred speech or (an option that was becoming increasingly more likely) tears.
The little man in the corner piped up just loud enough to point out that my friend Steve was across the room. He could help, the little man yelled. There's no help, the man in the control room shot back. I made my way to him, an ordeal that at the time seemed akin to the Fellowship's long and treacherous journey to Mordor. Steve, without missing a beat, helped me out and talked me down and I recovered quicker than I ever had and got onstage and immediately rocked the fuck out of that performance with my eyes still freshly puffy. The Flu Game doesn't hold a candle.
Now, dear reader o'mine, you might've noticed something about my tone here (and indeed, in my life in general). But it probably seems especially inappropriate here. How I'm padding every deeply personal revelation under fifty layers of sarcasm, self-effacement, and metaphor. See, I've always fancied myself a bit of a badass fighter antihero type and growing up on nerd pop culture, I've tried to take cues from the Han Solos and Mal Reynolds of the world - the coolest guys don't show their hand, which I'm doing by writing this post. It's not that they don't have struggles, but if you really have a struggle, then you're not gonna talk about it. Tragic backstories are told through flashbacks or dramatic reveals, not expositional chitchat. Talking to Ra-- Steve did a lot to assuage that feeling. Not for a moment did he question it nor did his concern for the situation ever dip. Frankly, a lot of the tears (figurative tears, of course, I'm a man. For real, though I don't suck my thumb) were more out of pleasant surprise than panic. It was ridiculously validating, it helped me convince myself that what I was going through was very much real, even if I asked for help. I definitely wouldn't have been able to write this post if not for Steve. And even now, I still have to cushion it with jokes - it still feels wrong to talk about it.
But this whole thing is still particularly problematic for me because this is the type of stuff I should really be able to handle. Not because I'm a man (though I'm sure that plays a role) but because I'm literally asking for it. I have, by design, a very antagonistic personality. Like the characters above, I enjoy being snarky and combative but also fighting and taking loud self-righteous stances. I fully intend to pursue in public service / politics, where criticism is like oxygen. These are things I should be able to handle because of how I've crafted myself and laid out my future. So how do these attacks bode for me?
I've been trying to come up with some logical narrative to this story, some conclusion of sorts to justify writing this at all. I don't have a good one. I think I just want people to know. I don't need anyone feeling sorry for me or taking precautions (I'm a MAN dammit!), but I have people I love who might read this and learn something about me, something that's somehow easier to express in a public blogpost in a one-on-one conversation. But also, if all this came about from my oversensitivity, wouldn't this be a good place to start? Exposing myself bit by bit so that I might develop a tolerance for what other people think of me? So, in the immortal words of Tag Team and every adolescent white boy trying to seem cool with a dated hip-hop reference:
Whoomp.
There it is.
THIS IS SO LONG I'M SO SORRY MR. MITCHELL I JUST KINDA RAMBLED AFTER A CERTAIN POINT
As someone who struggles with overthinking things and interpreting criticism, I really appreciate that you wrote this post. Not only is this incredibly well-written, but it's very introspective and offers a lot of insight as to what it can be like to deal with these things. I can definitely relate to the part where you talked about crying more out of pleasant surprise than anything else-- sometimes the thing that can really set you over the edge is just the realization that someone cares about you. Thanks for writing this!
ReplyDelete