When I am comfortable, I am awesome.
A shouty, loud, over opinionated, gin soaked, drunk-comfortable awesome but awesome all the same. In this state occasionally boys decide they like me. For all my faults, when I am not trying to impress anyone I am attractive.
When I like someone horrible things happen in my brain. My anxiety sidles up and wallops me like a Herculean face slap. My fear that they will not see the best parts of me brings out my crazy and I try too hard to act “right”. I think too much about how I want them to see me, how I am posed by my actions, like trying to act out a play or light a photograph to show me in the best possible light. It is unreal. But trying so very hard to be the perfect girl reeks of effort and rather than a photo-shopped ideal version of my self, I appear deranged, stalker esq, and more needy than a blind orphaned panda cub. The crazy takes over and I transform into a creature I barely recognize, manic with flailing limbs, wide eyes and audible throbbing heart beating through my chest.
This is the sad truth and because of it I think that almost every boy I have ever truly liked has run as far away as he could, literally or just emotionally. In trying so hard to show them my best side all I offer them is my crazy, my anxiety, the Medusa-like beast within turning men’s hearts to stone or perhaps to spoilt milk with lumps in it. My pre occupation with being cool and calm has been a lifelong yearning. In the 90’s as a child it was the disaffected apathy of Kurt Cobain, the cool breezy madness and rebellion of Empire Records and the Rock’n’Roll excess of Guns and Roses with their hoards of hot female followers that I based my opinions of cool on. All these people appeared crazy and offbeat, sometimes suicidal or drug addicted but all the while going about their existence in an unaffected kind of way. I longed to be unaffected by people, by societies judgements and by my own judgements of myself. I have long believed that you can never be cool if you try to be cool and in saying that I fear will never be cool around any man I am properly interested in.
I like to think of my anxiety as a second being, sitting there waiting to screw things up. It isn’t me, it is the anxiety and though that is no excuse for bad behaviour it is a way to stop blaming myself and constantly over compensating thus making everything so much worse. Over compensation is the evil super power of my Greek monster, leaving me standing alone, with a plate of cookies desperately willing you to love me.
I will wish for a happy ending to this story but I supposed the moral is that being yourself is the most attractive thing you can do. However clichéd and romcom that sounds when it comes to the tropical cyclone of anxiety you just can’t let it wheedle in there and change who you are, making you appear altered and unlike yourself.
I’d like to believe that the ‘you’ you are with your closest friends is the ‘you’ you want a man to fall for, at least for me.
Someone who will love me however many times I need to stop for the bathroom.