Scale Adjustments
I hope I have enough talent to back up how annoying I must be when I talk about myself...
Whenever I spend time with new people or coworkers these days I tend to walk away with a weird lingering feeling like a quiet anxiousness. Did I say too much about myself? Did I lie in some way? Was I exaggerating things- and as I undoubtedly did, was it too much or enough to actually be true?
It seems like for as much as I talk about myself and my experiences, I doubt myself a bit more than I really should.
It also seems like the more I say, the less I am really telling. I used to tell people so much less in the past, and it's almost like things seemed more real and sure back then. Like every time I tell a story or talk about something about myself it becomes less certain- yet is somehow confirmed by whoever is listening...do they believe me?
If people believe in or agree about something I say, it somehow becomes more true than the truth and I get confused.
I think at first it was accidental- unconscious perhaps- to embellish a story or feature about myself and make it more interesting.
Then at some point the things I said became warped and I realized after it came out of my mouth that the picture and feeling of the memory in my mind was unlike what I had illuminated to my listener.
I made some drama more dramatic...I made myself sound so sure about my interests and hobbies... I made some pain a little more bearable... I left out some crucial piece to censor the story... then I wondered "was it really so easy to go through that?"
Or I exaggerate the trauma or pain from a mundane life story in order to hide the true incident.
"I was mad at my mom."
Oh, why? Because of maybe ten years of abuse? Because she got mad at one thing I said? Because I felt rebellious and wanted to! Because I was firm and didn't take her shit!
But really I was so small... I was mad at them all for staying silent and blind to my years of torment- but I did the same thing to myself.
How can I be mad at them for ignoring the very thing I wanted to hide from? Maybe in some way they too felt like they were making the monster smaller rather than feeding it.
But that's the weird contrast of the pictures in my head... and the words coming out of my mouth.
I have been shrinking some demons for years- and the effort to face their reality also became some kind of defense. Lying about small things to cover up the really big things somehow still made them seem smaller... increasing the scale of the image made the trauma look the right size while blowing the little things out of proportion.
I don't want to say that my trauma is a part of who I am- but when I try to make all the small pieces of my mind into myself it also feels like a lie.
I guess I worry that I am bothering them because I am deeply truly bothered by myself... by my own pretension... and by the way I became such a bold faced liar.
Whenever I spend time with new people or coworkers these days I tend to walk away with a weird lingering feeling like a quiet anxiousness. Did I say too much about myself? Did I lie in some way? Was I exaggerating things- and as I undoubtedly did, was it too much or enough to actually be true?
It seems like for as much as I talk about myself and my experiences, I doubt myself a bit more than I really should.
It also seems like the more I say, the less I am really telling. I used to tell people so much less in the past, and it's almost like things seemed more real and sure back then. Like every time I tell a story or talk about something about myself it becomes less certain- yet is somehow confirmed by whoever is listening...do they believe me?
If people believe in or agree about something I say, it somehow becomes more true than the truth and I get confused.
I think at first it was accidental- unconscious perhaps- to embellish a story or feature about myself and make it more interesting.
Then at some point the things I said became warped and I realized after it came out of my mouth that the picture and feeling of the memory in my mind was unlike what I had illuminated to my listener.
I made some drama more dramatic...I made myself sound so sure about my interests and hobbies... I made some pain a little more bearable... I left out some crucial piece to censor the story... then I wondered "was it really so easy to go through that?"
Or I exaggerate the trauma or pain from a mundane life story in order to hide the true incident.
"I was mad at my mom."
Oh, why? Because of maybe ten years of abuse? Because she got mad at one thing I said? Because I felt rebellious and wanted to! Because I was firm and didn't take her shit!
But really I was so small... I was mad at them all for staying silent and blind to my years of torment- but I did the same thing to myself.
How can I be mad at them for ignoring the very thing I wanted to hide from? Maybe in some way they too felt like they were making the monster smaller rather than feeding it.
But that's the weird contrast of the pictures in my head... and the words coming out of my mouth.
I have been shrinking some demons for years- and the effort to face their reality also became some kind of defense. Lying about small things to cover up the really big things somehow still made them seem smaller... increasing the scale of the image made the trauma look the right size while blowing the little things out of proportion.
I don't want to say that my trauma is a part of who I am- but when I try to make all the small pieces of my mind into myself it also feels like a lie.
I guess I worry that I am bothering them because I am deeply truly bothered by myself... by my own pretension... and by the way I became such a bold faced liar.
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