“I never know how much of what I say is true.” – Bette Midler
You would think there were more troublesome fears in my immediate thought than the seemingly trivial fright of turning out to be merely pedestrian. However, not even the fear of death can linger on in my mind the way this does. I’ve dreaded for a long time the idea of being simple, ordinary. For all I know, I’ve subconsciously made myself gay at the age of fifteen so I won’t turn out ordinary. Although I’m pretty sure my sexual desires were already developed by the time this early-onset psychological hipsterism had set in. While my sheer fascination with Todd from Suvivor China hastened the process of accepting I was gay, I do believe it might have triggered the inherent need to surpass my own state of existence. Not mere ambition, but actually striving for dreams that for someone in my position (low-income family in Buttfuck, Romania) would end up being quite impossible to achieve. Why in the world would I ever believe someone like me can become a forensic anthropologist? This might just be a subconscious attempt to set myself up for failure so that I can remain in the comfortable realms of my depression.
Which brings me to another issue from which all this could’ve very possibly stemmed from, and that is overthinking. Hyperbolic self-awareness, after all, is the title of this blog. My brain often fires in a dozen directions at once. If I don’t ponder on the many emotional issues that usually result from a low self-esteem and therefore sit in melancholy hating myself, I have a tendency to believe I become simple. Because I look at myself and I think I’m pretty damn average. I have average looks, average body and even an average intelligence (as a disclaimer, I’m only of average smarts in the portion of the population that actually thinks). Even as I write this in a language that is not my own native tongue, I feel what I express is of a quite average quality because there are the actual natives that can do it better. The thing that in my mind makes me the least bit average at this moment in my life is what you’ve just read. The excessively overdone dramatization of my complicated thought process. While clearly I have not made myself gay, there’s a part of me that believes I have turned myself into a complicated, weird mess so that I have something to like in myself. Because in the end, as fucked up as it may be, I do like that about myself, that is, the fact that my mind isn’t simple. However, to say I made myself complicated and weird to not be average could very well be a consequence of actually being complicated and overthinking it. I’m not aware of the degree of philosophy Bette Midler intended with her quotation, but I do feel that most of the times I don’t know how much of what I say is real or true to myself.