A stylisedmonologue overspill:
At the tender age of six, I got labeled a ‘bohemian child’ by my favourite teacher of all time. My creative streak and penchant for mischief earned me the highest spot on her pedestal of students. During a teacher-parent meeting (my most dreaded occurrences of all time) my parents expressed their concern regarding my absolute resistance to let numbers and their bizarre incestuous multiplying ways penetrate my young brain. Words made sense, numbers didn’t (I have since developed a theory that I am dysnumeral - and, evidently, a wordsmith – ) and they bored me to death. My six year old brain, not unlike my 26 year old one, deemed maths unnecessary for my particular lifestyle of choice (what a knobby thing to say, at six especially) and therefore discarded it from the mental list of things I would ever care to learn. My parents were not only exasperated by the fact that they wasted their time trying to get their sole offspring to comprehend the notion of 1+1=2 while it (I) looked back at them with blank stares, but they also feared that this lack of mathematical basis would shatter my confidence in the next few, inevitably numerical, years of secondary school. They were right. That’s exactly what happened.
At the tender age of six, I got labeled a ‘bohemian child’ by my favourite teacher of all time. My creative streak and penchant for mischief earned me the highest spot on her pedestal of students. During a teacher-parent meeting (my most dreaded occurrences of all time) my parents expressed their concern regarding my absolute resistance to let numbers and their bizarre incestuous multiplying ways penetrate my young brain. Words made sense, numbers didn’t (I have since developed a theory that I am dysnumeral - and, evidently, a wordsmith – ) and they bored me to death. My six year old brain, not unlike my 26 year old one, deemed maths unnecessary for my particular lifestyle of choice (what a knobby thing to say, at six especially) and therefore discarded it from the mental list of things I would ever care to learn. My parents were not only exasperated by the fact that they wasted their time trying to get their sole offspring to comprehend the notion of 1+1=2 while it (I) looked back at them with blank stares, but they also feared that this lack of mathematical basis would shatter my confidence in the next few, inevitably numerical, years of secondary school. They were right. That’s exactly what happened.
While being the artistic child that’s far more interested in putting on school plays and writing up imaginative stories was all the rage at my primary school, my new ‘grown up’ learning camp had a strict policy of feeding us information that we had to swallow intact and unquestioned, only to then vomit it all up on an exam paper. Learning to understand things was irrelevant to them. Having our own opinions on things was just plain unacceptable. Being creative or imaginative were borderline offences and I once got punished for rapping a prayer. Rapping could have been my true calling, now I'll never now.
From the ages of eleven to eighteen, I slowly saw my confidence slipping away from me. This is not entirely a bad thing. I developed self-sarcasm which, trust me, is a double ended sword. On the one side, it's given me a fairly sharp sense of humour and the ability to not take myself seriously which makes me, not a knob. On the other side, hara-kiri. Unfortunately you occasionally encounter people who don’t understand sarcasm, self or otherwise, and will think that there’s nothing about you that is, in fact, serious. (I'm about to go deep for like, one minute, CAN YOU HANDLE IT? Let's go) The problem with being pigeonholed a bad student is that, despite not quite realising it at the time, it makes you start doubting your abilities. So you joke about shortcoming you don't even have in order to prevent someone else finding them out for themselves. (But they don't exist, so they wouldn't find them out, so you're stupid. I am mostly talking about myself by the way, don't get offended. Also, I'm not stupid). I realised this started getting worse when I became a 'real adult' (wait, surely that's not actually happened yet?). Having an ignorant friend frivolously house me in the poor work ethic category for no reason other than, I can only assume, based on my own undermining jokes, really struck a chord.
While complaining about it to my saint of a boyfriend (whom I have in fact worked with and who can vouch I not only work hard and efficiently but I’m also good at team building) (he can vouch that because he wants sex, but also, because it’s true) (parenthesis), he pointed out that every time someone asks me what I do for a living, I flap my hands awkwardly and then trash talk myself. Is it because I think I suck? No. I think I’m good at my job and any job I’ve ever done including being a waitress and writing copy for escorts (excluding that one time I spilled orange juice all over some guy’s crotch – I’m not going to tell you which of the two jobs this happened during).
In the same way I diagnosed myself as dysnumeric, I shall diagnose myself as a sufferer of a rare condition called self-deprecationitis. And lets be honest, self-deprecationitis is basically a residue of the even greater disease(fun fact: I had to leave without finishing my sentence, a whole 24 hours later, I have no idea what this greater disease was going to be but lets assume it was something hilarious with small rays of profound truth shining through).
Like with every disease, imaginary or not, certain things can trigger symptoms. So, in the same way my body shuts down at the sight of an apple, my self-deprecationitis flourishes in nearly all social circumstances (especially the beginning and ending parts of a social gathering where you have to hug, kiss and introduce yourself/hug, kiss and make fake plans with each other) as well the receiving end of compliments (a position I oftentimes find myself at… #knob).
So, in a bid to no longer self sabotage, I decided to fake it. I mean I got really good at it during my last relationship… JK! LOL! HAHA! etc… No, but seriously, I am terrible at faking anything. I think it stems from that one time when I was, like, 7 when my dad asked me if I’d done my homework and I straight up lied about having been assigned none. When my dad persisted, my guilt got the best of me and I mumbled something along the lines of “err… something was written on the blackboard but I’m not sure that it was homework”. And that's when my dad proceeded to ruin my life forever (It’s true, dad, I’ve been meaning to tell you this for YEARS)*** by being really angry at me for lying. “Your punishment is that I will never trust you again” he said while wrath laced his voice and disappointment painted his face. I see what he was doing, he was trying to raise me an honest individual. An overrated quality, if you ask me, which he did managed to forcefully instil into me. 19 years later, and I’m more honest than Shakira’s hips(but with less of an ability to make a man want tospeak Spa-nish). I don't lie because I'm terrible at it, not because I don't want to. I don’t even lie on my CV out of fear that I will get caught and end up ugly-crying into the interviewers lap while questioning if she/he will ever trust me again. (You’re paying for therapy, right Dad?)
So faking confidence when you are very confident that you can’t fake anything is hard. (Plus will that make me less funny? Since, you know, I mainly laugh AT me?) BUT I VOW TO DO IT!
Starting from today, I promise to not put myself down. Not even for the sake of a really great joke (I'm probably lying, but I do promise I will only do it when the joke is exceptional).
And if you are also a victim of Self-deprecationitis, you should do the same!
I WANT YOU, TO BE NICER TO YOURSELF!
 |
| God, I look SE-XY in a top hat |
Unlike Jean D'arc (gurrrl was nuts!) we shall shut those doubt-y little voices. Well, maybe not shut them, but reserve them for the people whose humour can take it!
***I'M JOKING DAD, YOU'RE THE BEST!
***I'M JOKING DAD, YOU'RE THE BEST!
