Should You Force Yourself to Do What You Don’t Want to Do?
Things I hated on a first impression:
Gotham, The Martian, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Firefly,
Rick and Morty, Bob’s Burgers, Adventure Time,
my first boyfriend.
To be fair to my first boyfriend, it was about 8
a.m. and he was way too cheerful.
I like to complain. I think that’s evident from
any single quote you can get from me. Part of the reason is because it really
does help me get over something if I discuss it. It also helps me to problem
solve. But mostly I think it comes from a deep seeded belief in my
non-credibility. People tend to think I’m lying despite my gross disinterest in
doing so. I’d say I lie a lot less than average, and when I do, I’m not very good
at it. I notice things, come to conclusions, and then have people question
those conclusions that seem to fly out of nowhere. Yet, when you make a point
to speak every mild irritant, people are more likely to believe you when the
problem gets bigger.
Now, from my complaints, understandably, you have
quite a few people asking, “Why don’t you just not deal with it?”
Why are you reading that book if you don’t like
it? Why did you let that guy talk to you when you weren’t immediately attracted
to him? Sometimes you should just accept that you don’t like socializing and
stop guilting yourself for it.
True. Somewhat. I mean, if I accepted “how I am”
as just being “how I am” I wouldn’t be a writer. Procrastination, laziness, a
short attention span… Pretty accurate to who I was as a teenager. Is true for
me now when I let it. I believe most skills can be learned, and not accepting
something because you’re afraid or just begrudging isn’t going to change your
life.
But I do spend a lot of time doing things that I
don’t want to. Not that I don’t spend a lot of time doing what I do want to,
nor do I mean to imply that most people don’t have to do things they don’t
like. What I mean is, I spend a lot of time doing what I don’t want to do in my
free time for “fun.”
I force myself to go out. I force myself to finish
a T.V. series I’m not really enjoying. I force myself to drag myself through a
novel I hate.
This week I saw a flyer at the library for a
writing group. I picked it up thinking, I
really should go to that, but I’m kind of dreading it. I’ve always enjoyed
writers groups, and in fact remember them as being some of the best times I’ve
had in the last few years. But I hate meeting people, and there is always this
moment of territorialism you have to contend with. You have to stomp your feet
and piss on your chair to assert your dominance before you guys can settle down
into a more collaborative, friendly environment.
It’s actually not that hard to do. If the writers
are experienced, they’ve already calmed down, and if they’re not, they are
easily influenced by a good attitude and an obliviousness to their competitive
side. But someone often tries to prove themselves upon your first meeting, and
while it’s not that difficult to deal with, it stresses me out.
Plus, I have to curb my ego as well, which can be exhausting.
Truth is, I like staying home all day. I just feel
guilty for it. And I’ll be the first to admit about how important it is to get
sunlight, fresh air, and exercise in if you want to feel good, especially if
you’re at risk for depression. Forcing myself to go out into the world—which is
a lot easier now that I live in New York because you kind of have to—tends to
make the day go better.
Socializing and even being touched are pretty important
necessities that you don’t think about until you suddenly experience it again.
You don’t know why you’re feeling badly until, WHAM, social contact, and you
realize what you’ve been missing.
I want a family. After last year’s break up and a
couple of run-ins with harassment, romantic notions had fled me. The thought of
being with someone didn’t excite me anymore, mostly because I didn’t have any
hope. I suppose I had always wanted a relationship with someone sort of like
Calvin had with Hobbes. Even just a friendship, where the two of you had a deep
bond, inseparable, important, irreplaceable. I had hoped that I would have that
kind of connection with a husband, but so far I’ve found me taking a back seat
in both my relationships. Prior, I hadn’t cared about being the pursuer and
just wanted to make someone else feel good, but in return I received massive
neglect, betrayal, and heartache. Guys won’t leave me alone, but they won’t
exactly put any effort in either. Even brushing their teeth is asking too much.
When I found out how much my ex separated love and
sex, I searched out signs that this was just a personality trait, but was told
by guy after guy, in not so many words, that no, a man’s sexual attraction
means nothing.
I sat behind a young guy on the subway yesterday.
He was staring at an Instagram photo. Not a sexual one, just a girl’s face, a
profile picture. He gaped at it for a solid minute before flipping to a picture
of a totally different woman and gaping at that one too.
I had a guy who was attracted to me. Until we grew
close. He was attracted to a lot of women, and all it seems to mean is that
they’re going to bother you for your attention until they get sidetracked by
someone else.
Oh, sure, it doesn’t mean anything. They can still love you and feel attraction, right?
Well, what if you don’t? What if the one person
you wanted, the only person you
wanted, was constantly using other people to get excited? What if they were
doing things that you’d never even been tempted to do?
It was wrong. It was wrong, and I tried to force
it, to fix it. I loved him through the bad. I loved him through the really bad.
I loved him long after I shouldn’t. It was so hard to make myself leave,
knowing I was depressed, knowing I was lonely, knowing that I needed to do what
was right for me otherwise be trapped with someone whose talk of marriage
included informing me that his friend said, “Shit or get off the pot.”
Oh you charmer.
I suppose I rather be the one who isn’t tempted to
stray than the other way around. I like the fact that I could feel that way for
someone. I like that being in a relationship won’t make me pained on what I
might be missing out on. I like knowing it’s easy for me to be a trustworthy,
devoted partner. But it begs the question: How much do you settle for someone
who does things you would never do back? Even if there was no ill-will?
Am I unique in my devotion? I can’t imagine that’s
the case. And maybe the desire to look at other people really doesn’t mean
anything. Maybe if I find someone who is accessible and misses me when I’m gone
is enough. But that certainly seems like settling to me.
I struggled to see myself in a relationship again.
I want someone to see me the way I am capable of feeling for someone else. I
want someone to be devoted to me, to not screw me over because I don’t
constantly vocalize my needs, to take care of me when I’m feeling weak, and who
will step up when I can’t put in the effort anymore.
Last year, the dog my ex and I got together died.
It was after I had left, and I was mostly in a state of shock. He was just a
puppy.
I remember when we took him swimming for the first
time. He was a little timid at first, but he took to it like a duck. Or an
otter, really, my little otter, who when I was swimming out in the deep, he
dove right in and bravely plowed through the distance to come to me so I could
catch him.
I miss him so badly. I think about him every day.
I hardly think about my ex, and usually when I do, it’s more about the anger I
feel towards the distrust I have now, the lack of optimism, how he’s skewed how
I see men. But I miss Storm more than anything.
I want a dog. I want a puppy who I connected with
at his birth. He was a velociraptor, bitty with tiny little needles for teeth,
and I remember swearing, “Next time we get a dog, it will be an adult!” But I
want to teach him to swim. Train him to sit. Be woken up by kisses at six a.m.
I want a family, a home, children, and a friend.
Someone who I can count on when I need him, who will hold me when I’m scared,
who will show me he cares about me and not sit back and let me do all the work.
I’m in a new city, alone, trying to make decisions, be optimistic for the
future, and all I can think about is how badly my past went, how the family I
tried to make disintegrated before my eyes. It was like trying to hold sand
keeping it together. It was so hard, and in the end, all I had to show was
humiliation and anger.
For a long time, I didn’t want to date again. I didn’t
want to leave my house. I didn’t want to meet people. I didn’t want to read
that book.
Until I do. I know if I go to this writers group,
I’ll have fun after all is said and done. Maybe not a lot of fun. Maybe I’ll be
begrudging it every step of the way. Maybe if I finish this book, I’ll change
my mind about it. Not a lot. It was still a pain to read, but at least I’ll
feel better. Maybe if I give a guy a chance, he’ll prove funny and caring.
Maybe not enough to date, but at least he’ll remind me of the good feelings
that can come with it.
Or maybe I’ll fall in love. Maybe the group will
excite me, inspire me, help me blitz out a couple of pages that night. Maybe
that book will become my favorite, something to be read time and time again,
getting better the more I am open to it. Maybe I’m skipping over the love of my
life, in whatever form, by avoiding change and risk taking.
I started talking to someone again and positive
associations returned. Hopefulness came by forcing myself to try. Getting
myself out there, doing things that I didn’t want to do helped me want to do
them again.
Life is too short to spend it reading bad books,
but it’s too short not to take a chance on something either.
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