Too Muchness

Too Muchness

It’s just too much.

I feel as though I’m afflicted with a phobia. If I were to guess, I’d guess that it is not an actual pathology, however, it does feel like one. I fear that I am afraid of too much. Not that I’m afraid that I have too many fears. That’s not it. Instead, I’m afraid of everything in a state of “too much.” For example, I am afraid of running too much. After realizing that to maintain my current (this was years ago) running ability (which isn’t even enough to brag about or even bring up really, nevertheless), I had to continue running every single day, and that was (is) too much. I quit running (although I still go out for a few jogs a year) cold turkey about two months after this realization. On a different note, one of my more vivid remembrances of “too muchness” happened roughly around the time I began having to wear makeup on stage for performances (as a gymnast, I never had to wear makeup for competition [although, perhaps I should have], and so, when I switched to dancing, the prospect of stage makeup sounded fun, albeit a little gross). I had worn makeup on stage when I was a child, but this time, I had to wear it as a young lady, and when I saw my own reflection, I liked it. I also then immediately understood that I would have to wear makeup like this every day or else, everyone would know when I wasn’t wearing makeup, or if I was wearing makeup and they saw me immediately after having seen me without makeup, etc., etc., &c., down the rumination wheel I spun. Until, ultimately, I decided that I would never wear makeup (off the stage) because people could see it, which meant that they could see when I didn’t wear makeup, which meant that I had to wear makeup every single day, and that was too much. There are other examples, but I strive not to bore.

Currently, I’m struggling with a different sort of too muchness, and the realization around this particular iteration spawns a bit of truth that I would rather not know. And please, save your judgments of my patheticism as I am very aware of how pathetic my situation is, not to mention the problematic egotistical nature of the situation. The issue is this: Although capable of writing every day, I do not out of fear that I will write too much.

The reality, however, may be less “ewe” and more “oh” once you’ve heard the underlying fear. And that fear is that I am afraid of scrutiny. (Boo, ewe.) I know the rules; I know the game. You’ve gotta write a lot, all the time in order to succeed. It must be an act to which you are fully dedicated. And I, I am only willing to dedicate myself so much lest it becomes too much. But I honestly do not even know what “too much” even means. Like, what the fuck? I decide to sit down and write, and as soon as I attempt to do so, a stupid fucking voice inside my head reminds, “Well, once you open this faucet, you could write for days on end. And that’s too much.” Too much what!

I don’t know.

And apparently, I cannot know because the problem inside my head is inside my own fucking head creating the problem that’s inside my own fucking head. This is why therapy and therapists exist, in case you were ever wondering. Goddammit, my nails are too fucking long to type fast, effectively and efficiently right now. Ugh.

Essentially, I’m stuck inside this psychological nightmare wherein I must write, but if I get carried away, I’m somehow afraid of writing too much (with no regards to how well I’ll write, mind you, and when has writing too much ever been a bad thing), but at the same time, I also fear the scrutiny and criticism of those who (I want to have) read my writings if they (the writings) gain any traction, AND I also fear that I will never be read at all, ever. Yea, I know; I’m a pathetic loser. And so, I suppose, the only thing left for me to do is to just write about this issue of “too muchness” in the hope of finding or knowing the signal to all this noise. The fear, most likely, revolves around something about how, I’m afraid that the next thing I write will be my last. It’s like they say, Hope floats on the death-farts of Dreams.