Wow. Lots of issues.

I spend much of my life feeling that if I relax for just one milisecond, Something Bad will happen and everything will crumble. If I do anything wrong, or make any mistakes, or use the word “sperm” in polite company, or skip a class, or pretend I don’t have homework, or cuss in front of my Mother-in-Law, or skip scripture study, or forget to say “Bless You” after a sneeze…then my whole life will collapse, my future will be lost, any chance for happiness will slip between my fingers, the delicate balance of the universe will be thrown out of wack, my foot will slip off the trail and I’ll go tumbling off the cliff and spill my brains on the hard rocks below.

This must be irrational. It must. But (being a whole-hearted subscriber to the irrationality) I have a hard time finding the logical alternative and letting go of the fear.

By fearing the chance of loss, I’m denying myself the chance to gain. By being anxious about losing a chance for happiness, I’m stripping myself of the chance for happiness.

Take right now, for example. Right now at this very moment my stomach is churning. Why? I’m not quite sure. It might be because I’m anxious about spending time this afternoon with my in-laws. It might be because the end of the semester is nigh at hand and I don’t feel sufficiently stressed out about my finals. It could be because I’m sitting at work without anything to do. It could be that I haven’t uttered a complete prayer in several months. It might be because I haven’t done my visiting teaching.

And that’s another thing. I think I use guilt to punish myself. I think I also use guilt as an attempt to steer myself right. If I can just feel guilty enough about not visiting teaching, I think, then I’ll be motivated to do it next month. But I guess that’s a pretty shitty motivator, turning the Good Deed from one motivated by genuine love to one motivated by a selfish desire to quiet the churning in my stomach and the pinching at my heart.

And you know, I spend a lot of time worrying that whatever it is that I’m doing at the moment is the wrong thing to be doing. If I’m spending the day in the park by myself with a book, I think I should probably be attending a church party and making more friends. If I’m out with a friend, I think I should be with my husband. If I’m out with my husband, I think I should be spending time with a friend. If I spend Saturday knitting, I worry that I spend too much time alone. If I stay at home on Sunday, I fret about not serving others. If I’m out serving others, I really just want to be at home. If I’m being religious, I yearn after free thought. If I’m thinking freely, I wish I could be corralled in by the absolutism of religion. If I’m spending lots of time with friends, I worry that I’m losing touch with myself. If I don’t have a lot of friends (like now), I worry that something’s wrong with me. So much discontent. So much worry. About what? About if what I’m doing is the right thing to be doing. But what the hell does that mean? What is the “right thing”? And how do I know what it is? How am I supposed to know what it is? Why do I spend so much time second-guessing myself? Emily Dickinson freaking spent all of her time alone. She never even moved out of her parents’ house. But she was important and significant. (Although really—what is importance and significance?) Earnest Hemingway spent most of his time being manly and sleeping with whores and getting drunk and living in Paris. He, too, was Important and Significant. (But, ya know, he did kill himself.)
I’m afraid to be content because I’m afraid of the person I am right now. If I relax, my God, I might not improve, and then I’ll be stuck as me forever and ever. But then again, I remember spending agonizing years wrestling with my weight. When I finally said, “To hell with this. My body is fine just the way it is,” I lost thirty pounds. The lesson? If you stop asking for what you want, you just might get it. How’s that for a miserably cruel paradox? Or maybe it’s a delightfully kind one. I wonder if I stop feeling guilty about not going to church I’ll want to go the church. Once again, that’s counterintuitive. I feel that I have to guilt trip myself into church attendance or it just won’t happen. But maybe not. What do I know?

Someone in one of my classes the other day related an interesting little tale:

A business man in a third world country approached a young shepherd sitting under a tree, watching his sheep.
“You should put up a fence,” the business man advised.
“Why would I do that?” the shepherd asked.
“Well, if you did that, you wouldn’t have to sit here watching your sheep. And you wouldn’t lose so many. Then you would have the time and means to build more corrals and buy more sheep. And then maybe you could sell your sheep and get some cows, which are more profitable. And if you keep it up and work really hard, you’ll earn more money and buy some horses, which are even more valuable. Then you’ll be able to buy a nice house and then retire early and then you’ll be able to relax!”
The shepherd looked at the business man for a moment.
“What do you think I’m doing right now?”

In other issues, there was a protest on campus the other day. I thought that was pretty pimp. My Me Self is actually a huge supporter of the cause, but my Afraid stuff decided not to participate. Afraid Self doesn’t want to step on anybody’s toes, or hurt anyone’s feelings, or make anyone mad at me. I didn’t want to take part for fear of doing any of those things. If I had lived in American in the revolutionary era, Me Self would have fought for freedom (or valiently stood up for the crown); Afraid Self would have quietly tried to maintain neutrality. Afraid Self’s motto is: “Like me. Please?”

I pretend that I don’t want to hurt people’s feelings because I’m worried about them, but I have a feeling the nasty truth is I don’t want to hurt people’s feelings because I don’t want them to hate me.

And I think I exaserbate the situation by being extremely critical of everyone I encounter. I tend to cast insta-judgments on peoples’ character and likeability. I think it’s a vicious cycle. There’s me, being afraid of being disliked because; disliking people before they dislike me; being afraid of people disliking me because I dislike so many people. (If I were cool like Crazy Aunt Purl, I would make a diagram of this, by the way.) And then there’s another vicious cycle tied into this one, wherein my fear of being disliked makes me uncomfortable about who I am, which makes me anxious, which makes me be afraid about being disliked.

But that is another thing I need to work on. Let’s be honest. I can be a real bitch at times.
For example, these are examples of real mean things I’ve said lately:

“Your mother is a crazy fundamentalist.””Can you believe the way those people hold their baby? They’re going to give him brain damage.”
“Her husband has some real insecurity issues. What a loser.”
“Amanda’s parents are so rich and so stingy. You’d think they’d give something to her once in a while.”
“Those rich people are totally spoiling their children. As though throwing toys at them would compensate for a total lack of workaholic relationship.”
“I hate that girl. She talks really loud.”
“If this moron walking in front of me doesn’t speed up, murderous rage will ensue.”
“That person is such a McConki-ite. I could never relate to them.” (You’d have to be a Mormon to understand this one.)
“Why does she feel like she always has to be doing something fun? She’s probably hiding from something.”
“I don’t know how anyone could stand being married to that person.”
“That baby is so freaking repulsive.”
“Their use of cloth diapers is just plain gross.”
“Can you believe anyone still wears pants like that?”
“Anyone who gives birth at home is a freaking idiot.”
“He wears fashionable clothes, making him obviously shallow and unlikeable.”
“Asians are so stingy. I hate having to help them at work.”

I really don’t want to be this way. I really don’t. I just don’t know how to change my thought patterns to avoid such absolute ass-holishness.

I think I’m done therapizing myself for now. But remind me next time to talk about isolation.