Tuesday, August 7, 2012


I've mentioned it before, but it's worth saying again--I believe everyone has tapes that they play over and over again in their heads.   A demonic little elf inside your head repeating your once fleeting thoughts of self-loathing over and over again until they become as unremarkable and familiar as a lamp or a chair.  My tapes tell me I'm fat and clumsy.  My tapes tell me I'm a disaster literally and metaphorically.  My tapes tell me I'm stupid and I always say the wrong thing in any given situation. My tapes tell me everyone in my life secretly hates me and will eventually leave me to die alone and be eaten by my cat. My tapes are the worst.

Now, these tapes are either on low volume or full blast depending on the time of my life.  Certain situations exacerbate the tapes, for instance when I facebook-stalk people who I perceive to be better than myself and find, much to my chagrin, are indeed much better and proving it with pictures for the world to see.  The perfect girl from my AP government class is engaged and has graduated for law school?  The tapes go up to an 11.

Another instance that turns up my tapes, is unfortunately, my current relationship.  Now let me start off by saying I love my boyfriend.  He's wonderful and considerate and funny and smart and by my summation, damn near perfect.   And that's the problem.   He is nearly perfect and I am just the worst.  I spent the last week staying in his house in Dayton and I found terrifying things.   His kitchen cabinet looks like a pottery barn ad.   Despite the opaque wooden door, the glasses are lined up like toy-soldiers and the plates are stacked with alternating colors.  Also noteworthy, he rolls up the bag instead the cereal box, and turns the tightly sealed bag sideways inside the box to prevent staleness.  I sometimes don't close the cardboard tab! The juxtaposition between his "in control" and my "out of control" is enough for a Dharma and Greg-esque sitcom except I'm not laid back enough to be a hippie. And it makes me feel grossly inferior.  

And it's not just physical organization.   My boyfriend doesn't let bills pile up in the corner until he's so stressed out he cries and calls his dad to talk him through it.  I do though.  My boyfriend doesn't use a hair-straightener to iron his clothes sometimes.  And my boyfriend doesn't get hurt feelings about every insult, real or perceived that has ever plagued his entire life.  So, alright, you get the punchline already, "what do I bring to this relationship?"

Very little.  I actually can't seem to come up with anything.  It's these damn tapes.  So it's a little stressful.   It causes most of our fights and all of my worry.  And why?  Why why why can't I just let myself be happy?  Because I am.  Or I would be if I would stop inventing things to be worried about.   First I was stressed about my job, then I was stressed about leaving my job, then I was stressed about grad-school and now that I'm on summer vacation, having received A's in all my classes, respsonsibility-free I'm worried... that my boyfriend who loves me---doesn't?  Weak sauce.

First things first, I'm going to try to write more in this blog ( I know it's been forever) and I'm doing it not because anyone cares (except for you, Mom) but because it helps me exorcise some of my demons. And gives me a chance to take a long, hard look in the mirror and say, "Enough, crazy!  Also "Your bra isn't hooked right" (I say that to myself in the mirror a lot).