Dear Maddie,
Here are some things that I know about myself:
My three most active motivators are guilt, shame, and fear
I am plagued by a crippling sense of shyness, stemming from a pervasive feeling of inadequacy
I am deeply concerned with pleasing people
I am so overwhelmed by what I quietly fear will be my inevitable failure that I am often rendered mentally immobile and otherwise useless
I am least productive when alone
I am often preoccupied with strong and possibly distorted feelings of duty and obligation
I am terrified of being a bad person
I worry that my craving for acceptance would easily overcome my desire to be a good person should the two come into conflict
All these issues and their sources have become so tangled and twisted in with each other and everything else, I just can’t seem to even start unraveling it all - every move I make to try just tugs the knots tighter. And part of me is afraid that if I do succeed in unraveling everything there will be nothing left of me, or if there is, I won’t like at all what’s left.
I feel so guilty and hypocritical for choosing this profession, so suspicious and wary of my own motives.
I am drawn to tragedy even as a shrink away from it, addicted to how much it hurts to empathize with those situations, to feel that agony, to watch someone break and to readily break right along with them. I wonder if this obsession is something like a cutter’s. But I have too little resolve or too much pride to cut, so I go for something less obvious than skin. I wonder if I want to hurt. I wonder if I want it because I feel like I deserve it. I wonder if I do. I wonder if there’s a part of me that thinks it’ll make me better, a repentance, and if I can just hurt myself enough then I’ll be forgiven for my sins.
There’s something so appealing in that Christian concept of confession and suffering for salvation, when you know that you’re wicked but if you just admit to it, if you just kneel until your body breaks alongside your heart then everything will be ok again. But I don’t trust the church and I don’t believe.
I trust you though, Maddie, and I believe in you like nothing else.
What worries me most of all though, Maddie, is that it’s not forgiveness that I’m really after. It’s not repentance that I want, it’s punishment. Because I don’t deserve salvation, I’m not supposed to be happy, and maybe that’s what attracts me to tragedy. There is no redemption in tragedy, no hope, and certainly no happily ever after anywhere on down the line. Maybe I’m drawn to tragedy because that’s what I want, even though it hurts so awfully. Maybe it hurts to watch because it’s mine to share, because that’s what I deserve.
And what is this self loathing, this woe is me lamenting of the damned!? I don’t want pity and I don’t feel sorry for myself, I just want clarity, I want judgment, I want you to look at me with your perfect cold blue eyes and push me over the edge of condemnation. I want to fall and burn and break, though I can’t be certain what it is, exactly, I’ve done wrong. I would never wish this on someone, never sentence someone else to what I’m desperate for you to sentence me to, so what is it, exactly, that I’ve done? Why on earth should I hate myself!? I am accomplished, I am kind, I try so hard to be good. I acknowledge and regret my mistakes and I make substantial efforts to avoid repeating them. There are people who love me, who admire me, who are proud of who I am and what I’ve done. There is a perfect little horse, brave and strong and fast, who is utterly convinced that I am a Leader, who trusts me like he trust no one else, who believes in me enough to lay his life in my hands. So how could I hate myself!? Why am I so desperately convinced I ought to fall and burn and break!?
I don’t know. It doesn’t make any SENSE, Maddie, I can’t logically justify it at all. But it still FEELS the way it does and you can’t just talk yourself out of feeling, you can’t reason with emotion. And I don’t know why I trust you, Maddie, oh but I do. So very, very much. And what you say so shall it be, I hinge on your decision. And haven’t you already decided? Haven’t you already told me to go to Hell? Oh but tell me again, Maddie, tell me again, please, I need to hear you hate me, I need you to justify this hatred I have for myself, to quiet those parts of me that are still so troublesomely reasonable, I need to turn to them and point to you and say “There, you see? Be still and be silent. We are doomed and we are damned and that’s exactly the way that it’s supposed to be, so settle yourself and resign to this, enough!” Because they’ll listen to you, Maddie, like they’d never listen to me. Because I’ll listen to you Maddie, always.
And oh what tangled webs we weave. What nonsense is this, jumbled and confused and clinically alarming. What anxious self betrayal. I am too many, sometimes, too carefully compartmentalized. I can’t breathe behind these masks but I’ll die before I take them off - and god I miss Laurel, but did she know this like I know it? Did she really see past all that smoke and all those mirrors? And even if she did, where is she now, what is she now and what am I to her? What were we ever if anything but liars.
Things I can't say but mustn’t keep swallowing for too long.
Am I good person, Maddie? No, how could I be. But I’m trying, does that count? Doesn’t that count? Does anything count?
What am I doing and WHY. I have other things I need to do. I have articles to read and reports to write. I have charts to process and to file. I have smiles to fake and people to fool.
I want to rip myself open and show you, Maddie. Laurel, too, just to see if recognition flashes in her eyes before she recoils. I want to lay myself out in pieces and in rows and let you browse through me like a gory weekend yard sale, appraising my parts and eventually leaving empty handed. I want to show you these things and betray myself to the world, but I can’t, so I’ll tie it up in twine and send it out into the vacant span of space between us. I’ll type it up and put it here and wish it were written in ink so I could read it back and smudge the words I don’t want to echo in my head. I wish I could fold it up and send it to you Maddie, like I used to, but I can’t, so I’ll sign it with grimace while my heart bleeds out onto empty sheets of paper and my fingers ache to trace the promises you couldn’t keep.
And I’ll regret it, of course, after I’ve straightened my shoulders and readjusted my mask and convinced myself that this is silly. Once I am once again the me that I’m supposed to be. But I’ll try not to take it back. I’ve taken enough, as it is.
These are the things that I need you to know.
Always and Forever,
M
My three most active motivators are guilt, shame, and fear
I am plagued by a crippling sense of shyness, stemming from a pervasive feeling of inadequacy
I am deeply concerned with pleasing people
I am so overwhelmed by what I quietly fear will be my inevitable failure that I am often rendered mentally immobile and otherwise useless
I am least productive when alone
I am often preoccupied with strong and possibly distorted feelings of duty and obligation
I am terrified of being a bad person
I worry that my craving for acceptance would easily overcome my desire to be a good person should the two come into conflict
All these issues and their sources have become so tangled and twisted in with each other and everything else, I just can’t seem to even start unraveling it all - every move I make to try just tugs the knots tighter. And part of me is afraid that if I do succeed in unraveling everything there will be nothing left of me, or if there is, I won’t like at all what’s left.
I feel so guilty and hypocritical for choosing this profession, so suspicious and wary of my own motives.
I am drawn to tragedy even as a shrink away from it, addicted to how much it hurts to empathize with those situations, to feel that agony, to watch someone break and to readily break right along with them. I wonder if this obsession is something like a cutter’s. But I have too little resolve or too much pride to cut, so I go for something less obvious than skin. I wonder if I want to hurt. I wonder if I want it because I feel like I deserve it. I wonder if I do. I wonder if there’s a part of me that thinks it’ll make me better, a repentance, and if I can just hurt myself enough then I’ll be forgiven for my sins.
There’s something so appealing in that Christian concept of confession and suffering for salvation, when you know that you’re wicked but if you just admit to it, if you just kneel until your body breaks alongside your heart then everything will be ok again. But I don’t trust the church and I don’t believe.
I trust you though, Maddie, and I believe in you like nothing else.
What worries me most of all though, Maddie, is that it’s not forgiveness that I’m really after. It’s not repentance that I want, it’s punishment. Because I don’t deserve salvation, I’m not supposed to be happy, and maybe that’s what attracts me to tragedy. There is no redemption in tragedy, no hope, and certainly no happily ever after anywhere on down the line. Maybe I’m drawn to tragedy because that’s what I want, even though it hurts so awfully. Maybe it hurts to watch because it’s mine to share, because that’s what I deserve.
And what is this self loathing, this woe is me lamenting of the damned!? I don’t want pity and I don’t feel sorry for myself, I just want clarity, I want judgment, I want you to look at me with your perfect cold blue eyes and push me over the edge of condemnation. I want to fall and burn and break, though I can’t be certain what it is, exactly, I’ve done wrong. I would never wish this on someone, never sentence someone else to what I’m desperate for you to sentence me to, so what is it, exactly, that I’ve done? Why on earth should I hate myself!? I am accomplished, I am kind, I try so hard to be good. I acknowledge and regret my mistakes and I make substantial efforts to avoid repeating them. There are people who love me, who admire me, who are proud of who I am and what I’ve done. There is a perfect little horse, brave and strong and fast, who is utterly convinced that I am a Leader, who trusts me like he trust no one else, who believes in me enough to lay his life in my hands. So how could I hate myself!? Why am I so desperately convinced I ought to fall and burn and break!?
I don’t know. It doesn’t make any SENSE, Maddie, I can’t logically justify it at all. But it still FEELS the way it does and you can’t just talk yourself out of feeling, you can’t reason with emotion. And I don’t know why I trust you, Maddie, oh but I do. So very, very much. And what you say so shall it be, I hinge on your decision. And haven’t you already decided? Haven’t you already told me to go to Hell? Oh but tell me again, Maddie, tell me again, please, I need to hear you hate me, I need you to justify this hatred I have for myself, to quiet those parts of me that are still so troublesomely reasonable, I need to turn to them and point to you and say “There, you see? Be still and be silent. We are doomed and we are damned and that’s exactly the way that it’s supposed to be, so settle yourself and resign to this, enough!” Because they’ll listen to you, Maddie, like they’d never listen to me. Because I’ll listen to you Maddie, always.
And oh what tangled webs we weave. What nonsense is this, jumbled and confused and clinically alarming. What anxious self betrayal. I am too many, sometimes, too carefully compartmentalized. I can’t breathe behind these masks but I’ll die before I take them off - and god I miss Laurel, but did she know this like I know it? Did she really see past all that smoke and all those mirrors? And even if she did, where is she now, what is she now and what am I to her? What were we ever if anything but liars.
Things I can't say but mustn’t keep swallowing for too long.
Am I good person, Maddie? No, how could I be. But I’m trying, does that count? Doesn’t that count? Does anything count?
What am I doing and WHY. I have other things I need to do. I have articles to read and reports to write. I have charts to process and to file. I have smiles to fake and people to fool.
I want to rip myself open and show you, Maddie. Laurel, too, just to see if recognition flashes in her eyes before she recoils. I want to lay myself out in pieces and in rows and let you browse through me like a gory weekend yard sale, appraising my parts and eventually leaving empty handed. I want to show you these things and betray myself to the world, but I can’t, so I’ll tie it up in twine and send it out into the vacant span of space between us. I’ll type it up and put it here and wish it were written in ink so I could read it back and smudge the words I don’t want to echo in my head. I wish I could fold it up and send it to you Maddie, like I used to, but I can’t, so I’ll sign it with grimace while my heart bleeds out onto empty sheets of paper and my fingers ache to trace the promises you couldn’t keep.
And I’ll regret it, of course, after I’ve straightened my shoulders and readjusted my mask and convinced myself that this is silly. Once I am once again the me that I’m supposed to be. But I’ll try not to take it back. I’ve taken enough, as it is.
These are the things that I need you to know.
Always and Forever,
M