Too Much

I stress too much.  I burn myself out by caring too much. I beat myself up too much.  I stay up late too much.  I talk and play too much.  I complicate things too much.

There’s too much traffic, too much noise, too many people, too much static in my head, too much going on, too much.

All of it is too much.

There are so many things that I feel like I need.  I need to be better at what I do.  I need to contribute more to work.  I need to be more knowledgeable about the systems I work on.  I need to be better at foosball.  I need to “jump in and own it”.  I need to be debt-free.  I need to be stronger.  I need to lose weight.  I need to change my appearance.  I need way more affection in my life.  I need to be a better person.  I need, I need, I need.

There are just too many things that I need, too many things that I want, and not enough of either to fill these gaping chasms in my soul.  I haven’t though this much about what the world would be like if I weren’t alive since I was much younger.  It concerns me a great deal, not knowing specifically what is triggering it or how I can make it better.  Maybe my ex is right, maybe I do need to go on a medication regimen.  It would make sense, given how bad my emotional and physical symptoms are.  But then again, I don’t want to be changed by them.  Though, I suppose in the strictest sense of the concept that would mean I would have to stop ingesting caffeine, sugar, various vitamins, and anything that would affect my hormones… so I guess the better question is “what’s to lose”.

I never really had a deep relationship with my father, and my mother wasn’t really tuned-in to what was going on with me or my life.  She knew about some of the problems, sure.  But she never really knew any of the deeper reasons.  I don’t know if that’s because she was never interested, or because she never knew.  I suppose I put on one of my many masks for her to make sure that she wasn’t burdened by the knowledge that I was having pretty deep problems.  I’ve had too many of those during the course of my life.  A “work” mask, a “home with the parents” mask, an “out with my bro friends” mask, an “aspiring artist” mask, a “please accept me and take me home and have sex with me mask”… the list goes on.

I never had someone there by my side to tell me whether I was doing well or if I was screwing-up.  I never really had any kind of positive reinforcement or role model to work from.  The majority of my time was spent watching cartoons, playing video games, riding around on my skateboard, or pestering the one friend I did have throughout my life… but generally my early life was spent alone.  Alone because I had been rejected and remained an outcast for that entire span of my early life.  What I did learn, I learned by trial-and-error and by trying to figure out what exactly I could get away with and get in my life without risking too much.

I never really thought about it at any great length, but maybe the problem isn’t the masks… maybe it’s what’s underneath them all.  It’s fair to say that it might be my fear of being rejected by others that pushes me to wear all of these masks.  I want to stop wearing all of these masks.  I want to be accepted for me.

Maybe it’s just a matter of me becoming the person I have professed to be for so long.  Pick-and-choose the traits I want others to see and ditch the masks entirely.  Maybe that’s the key… or maybe not.  Maybe it’s a matter of medication and just not being a spaz because I’m too fucked-up to make a change.

I don’t know anymore.  I don’t know if I ever did.

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