Output 27—Crevasse

I’ve been re-watching the Netflix romcom “Love” (worst title for a show ever, impossible to tell anyone about because they will never find it) and it’s harder to watch because the character of Mickey reminds me soooooooo much of myself (a much younger, hotter version of myself, that is) and now that I have a tiny bit more insight into my behavior and what causes it, watching her flail around selfishly demanding support from people she constantly, casually neglects or even uses… yeah, it’s tough. The terrible insights just keep coming. At least she, like me, is dealing with it (and the show’s depiction of 12-Step recovery is dead-on).

The latest insight is a whopper. I know we are doomed to repeat patterns that were formed as children, even if those patterns damage us. I’ve never understood that, even as I am aware that I am caught in this cycle. Why should we voluntarily live in terrible discomfort, even as it’s acutely painful? Especially if we realize that we’re doing it, why are we so helpless to change? Why is the familar and painful somehow more comfortable the unfamiliar?

My Big Problem, the pattern I have been aware of for longer than any other, is my inability to finish what I start, especially creative stuff. I have ideas, I commit to them, I take the necessary steps, sometimes taking years and spending lots of money, to learn a new thing so I can maybe decide what the fuck my purpose in life is etc etc etc… and then I bail. And this process, like now, is often very public. I become terrified to the point of inertia of doing the thing that I have set out to do. I set myself up for failure, and I fail spectacularly because I run screaming instead of doing the work.

And now I wonder if I’ve been framing this the wrong way all along. Maybe the most confounding part of this pattern that I never really thought much about isn’t the not following through (or the actively rejecting and quitting). Maybe what I should be thinking more about is the setting myself up to fail part. I have a lot of resentment toward my parents for the little asshole dance they did to fuck me up as a creative person: Mom would sign me up for things, enter me in contests, get me professional art teachers when my schools had terrible ones, brag about me, cajole me to draw and show off my work, etc, and then my Dad and my schoolmates would come along and shit all over it or even threaten me for being a “show off.” I have spent years dealing with and forgiving my Dad, so now I’m super pissed at my Mom, unfortunately. She was only trying to help, not to make me a target. But that’s what she did, and now, that’s what I do. I set myself up to fail. I have taken on not only my Dad’s role (thinking my work isn’t worth anything), but also my Mom’s: attention-seeking, showing off, and then acting surprised when I flip out and quit at the first sign of not-perfection or not-praise.

It’s a mindfuck. I need to think about this for a while, as I navigate this very public meltdown I am having specifically because I very publicly accepted a dream opportunity that I now find myself too terrified to continue (at least for now).

Anyway. I’m just gonna leave this here though it’s only tangentially related to the above because it is the best representation of my current state of mind I could possibly elucidate, because Maria Bamford Sees Me.