On Self-Sabotage Sabbatical
The Sabbatical [If I hurt me before you, do I win, or do I lose?]
You know, it’s funny how we humans are wired. No matter how many accolades or pats on the back we get, if we don’t believe that we’re enough (consciously or not), we’ll find a way to screw it all up.
Confession Time:
* sages all negative energy in preparation to repent for my sins *
I wanted to “two truths a lie” your little booties and write a fabricated exposé filled with cheeky stories (excuses) in hopes of justifying (or at the very least distracting you from) why I went full hermit mode for the past six-ish weeks. I even wrote a lengthy essay contemplating, “Is going off the grid the greatest form of intimacy in today’s Metamodernism world?” Which I guess sounds cool in theory, and in actuality, I do find it to be an interesting topic of discussion, but in this particular context, it was essentially just a case of me being a virtue-signaling baby back BEEEYOTCHHH.
The true true
I was actually in the midst of a (new and rather unnecessary) internal identity crisis. Every time I sat down to write, all I just wanted to do was crawl out of my own skin, flick myself in the face, and scream, “STFU!!!” Only to retreat back into the depths of my own silly little soul and cocoon under a 15lb weighted blanket as I recycle Bon Iver’s Blood Bank EP (10th Anniversary Edition) on blast until my very ears practically turn into a blood blank of their own.
They (Rihanna) say fake it until you make it, but I haven’t had much success with that thus far. And listen, I am not one to go against a fellow Piscean sister and one of the greatest powerhouses of my generation (shout out @badgalriri), but if I’m being for real, for real… all that has gotten me is a nasty case of imposter syndrome, enough financial baggage to warrant Barbie Botox (if I could afford it), momentary loss of direction, and an identity crisis that even my Dior Backstage Flash Perfector couldn’t conceal.
So what’s a girl to do? Besides the usual uncontrollable sobbing while taping a bottle of red to each hand (Edward 40 Hands style) [see DJ Skeet for more details] and disassociating into a sad, comical vortex of self-doubt and radical overthinking—because clearly, that has been super successful for me thus far…
… Fake it until you believe it, I suppose. Like, genuinely mean it. None of that IG story Diego Perez repost BS facade to fool Dylan from last weekend’s antics at the Gem Saloon into thinking you’ve got your shit together.
* @yung_pueblo plz don’t take that personally, I love your work, you wise, wonderful dessert of a human *
What I’m trying to say is play pretend until you wake up one day and realize you weren’t pretending all along—you were simply summoning the courage to be the baddie you’ve always known yourself to be deep down. For me, faking it without the audacity to believe in it (me) just feels pathetic and performative. Like posting an ironic #NoFilter selfie with a... wait.. is that a Facetune watermark? I digress...
I really didn’t want to get too “self-helpy” in this post because, in truth, I find mental health in mainstream media to be so annoying. I mean, who am I to promote old cliches about “believing in myself” or “finding my way” to enlightenment through vulnerability and avocado toast? Clearly, if I was better able to help thyself it wouldn’t take me 42 days to craft this revolutionary rant, which could easily pass as a bootleg Brene Brown TedTalk.
I hate that I even have to write this low-key emo essay just to hop back on the Substack saddle and clear out brain space for the culturally relevant topics I actually feel inspired to tackle. And in a similar vein, I hate that I constantly judge myself for writing about less “fun” things like “feelings.” Don’t get it twisted, being a deep feeler is actually one of my favorite qualities in a person, but at the same time, I worry that when that person is me, I come off as one of those semi-inflated stick tube-shaped figures flailing outside a sandwich shop peddling yesterday's leftovers. Stale AF.
In a way, I blame TikTok for that—ever since this unprecedented medium took psyche to a new extreme, flooding us with ungodly amounts of misguided self-diagnoses video clips and out-of-pocket spiritual tropes, I fear mental health has become some sort of overplayed flashy brand—a brand fueled by consumerism and irritating “Hot Takes” suggesting we’re all equal victims of modern failures who need to collectively get together for one big kumbaya and heal as one. I’m not saying that I disagree with that sentiment in its entirety because I don’t, I just feel that when it comes to the entanglements of personal trauma and mental health, implications like victimhood are far more nuanced than what social media portrays it to be.
Here’s the crux: See a therapist. Not TikTok.
*** Jusssss kidding!! ***
(Kinda, not really.)
I guess what I’m trying to say is though I fundamentally believe a healthy head and happy heart are paramount, talking (writing) about it publicly in today’s media landscape makes me feel like a bad dupe. A stiff loser. And so, the self-sabotage sabbatical begins…
I freeze—I stop writing altogether (in case you couldn’t tell from my silence the past month and some). Not because I got caught up in wedding season, unexpectedly fell in love, or needed a break from social media in lieu of recent heartbreaking world events and a surge in ignorant pointed hate speech (all of which are true), it’s because I woke up one morning scared witless about absolutely everything and nothing all at once—a sudden neurosis that feels beyond my vocabulary to explain.
So I process.
I sit and I stew.
I drink and I think.
Hide it on the outside,
feel dead on the inside.
But eventually, I rise.
And I therapize.
Embrace the trite,
so I can finally muster the courage to write ᵕ̈
* end bar*
What I’ve begun to dig up is the more I share my thoughts (or physical self with people through a post-pandemic world, for that matter), the more exposed I feel, and in turn, the more dubious I become that people aren’t going to “like me” anymore or more immediately, find me annoying.
I know it’s silly, but I can’t help but wonder if honesty really is the best policy when it comes to your online footprint. Especially in such a critical “cancel culture” climate that we live in. Rejection is protection, they say… I know… blah blah, whatever. But, plainly speaking, I don’t like being fucking rejected. It disrupts my peace of mind, and I’m not cool enough to pretend that I don’t care. Because I do. Especially online, where human interactions lack the nuance of face-to-face communication that I find way more delicious and satisfying. I wish my skin was thicker, but it’s not. I’m working on that, but still, I don’t know if I’m fully ready to risk being disliked for expressing who I am and sharing what I believe in online.
Why even do it then, right? If I can’t take the heat, why the hell would I put my hand on the stove? IDK. I wish I knew so I could ease the phantom fingers that drum inside my chest. I guess there is just some sort of spark inside me that, for whatever reason, won’t let me not at least try. Even if it makes me feel like an AI avatar who is naked to the world, dispensed like a piece of deli meat.
This weird thing that I still can’t wrap my head around is the sudden, unprovoked onset of such a useless fear. I have actually received the opposite of rejection in life these days. Both friends and strangers have gone out of their way to tell me how wonderful they experienced my writing to be, yet the more empowerment I receive, the more fraudulent I feel. For fucks sake, why must my brain be such a fun sucker sometimes? WHY oh why do I do this to myself?
I can’t help but anxiously count the seconds until my luck runs out. I happy dance on eggshells, anticipating the inevitable crack that will showcase my ineptitude to the whole world and be left all alone to drown in a puddle of yolk. (Ew.)
So I stop. I stop writing. I stop trying. I stop connecting. I make some sort of quasi-contract with myself to stop believing in my truth and start believing the bullshit narrative that my inner sadist sings to me when I’m in solitude. A sweet symphony of wasted potential. Because that will keep me safe, right? That keeps me in control. If I create a heaven out of my own hell, then I’m calling the shots. If I hurt me before you, I win. You lose.
JEEEEEEEZ BRECCA. Am I the only person who thinks like this? In my more logical state of mind, I think not. But in my late-night Instagram scroll of doom, it certainly feels so.
THE OBSERVER
Sometimes, when I work at the clurb, I let the night move slow. I stand still, leaning against the tree facing the entry door in my black leather platform boots, classic reformation mini dress, and grandmother’s diamond earrings, taking in the line of intoxicated partygoers waiting to get inside like a motionless backdrop. I think about them, and then I think about me. I contemplate who they may be but never where they came from. I wonder what they’re trying to forget as they toss back their shot glass filled to the brim with chilled Casamigos Repo. What are they hoping to discover at the bottom of their bottle? Did you lose yourself like me? Or are you celebrating something wonderful with the people you love? Has someone broken your heart? Or are you still pretending you don’t have one as you Irish exit with that mysterious, blonde-haired stranger you surely won’t give a second thought to after sunrise? Maybe you’re not thinking at all—I wonder what that will eventually end up costing you.
I guess, in a way, we all play the wicked game that is self-sabotage. And yeah, we’ve all got our own unique strategies, but in the end, we are all unified by one simple common foundation: the desire to feel good—even if that comes at the expense of our own happiness or well-being.
So, that makes me wonder… Are we all constantly on defense? And if so, who's putting points on the board against us, other than our own team?
I’m slowly learning that, although cozying up to my defense mechanisms might feel cute and snug, you can’t actually tackle any of life’s challenges (inner and outer) when you’re preoccupied with being the little spoon. All it seems to be getting me is a half-baked existence and a false sense of security.
So, that’s why I’m back bitches. Because the false paradoxical pleasures of imposter syndrome and self sabotage are no longer fun for me anymore. I am so bored of feeling like a stranger to myself. Humanness is hard, guys. BUT we must prevail!
I really hope my silence hasn’t completely dug at my credibility, and you still may decide to stick around and entertain my word vomit from time to time because I have some really fun, weird things I want to talk about. If not, I totally understand and I send you all the blue butterflies and chocolate chip muffin tops.
Ok, that is it for now!!!!! I never really know how to end these things, so I’m just gonna say TTYL you thotty lil gangsters. Much love.
XOXO,
BYEEEEEEEEE
P.s. I also did actually get a boyfriend. And he took my virginity. More on that soon.