Not quite a suitable title, I know. Deferring it for more than two weeks now for the excuse of the search for a suitable title, I ran out of more reasons to defer it further. So, I believe I will have to (you will have to eventually) make do with this title.
Why I do what I do is more of a practical question for me rather than a philosophical one. In my mid-thirties, working from home on a rather comfortable couch, not needing to move or exercise my muscles for a bare minimum; the most natural question my brain pops up for me when confronted with any task, activity (physical, psychological or intellectual), or opinion is — WHY.
If somehow I manage to nudge the why and manage to get on with the task, the next question my voraciously bored mind will pop up is “Why am I doing what I am doing?”
Most of the time the answer is a plain simple “bored” or “I need validation” or “I need money” or “What’s the alternative, if not this than what”. The answers mostly oscillate between these options, sometimes with a few new ones been sprinkled over like “If I don’t I will die”, which is very rare.
On most occasions, I can get by my day and weeks and months with this arrangement between my brain asking me the standard question and I replying with one of the standard answers. It’s like the work colleague from another floor who you meet in the lift every day, he asks you “How are you?” and you go “I am good, how are you?” That’s the kind of pleasantries I share with my brain.
So far so good. But you know there are days when you are stuck with that colleague a little longer than expected on the lift, due to technical reasons like a power failure or a non-technical reason like someone taking too long to board and de-board. In those situations, your colleague changes the gear slightly and asks you an out of syllabus question for a lift conversation, which you knew existed somewhere in the course curriculum of modern-day living, but you never paid enough attention to read it. The question can be “So what are your thoughts about the whole ‘Black Lives Matter’ campaign?” or “Trump will come back to power this year too, what do you feel?” You don’t know what to say or think or make of this conversation. You want to get out of the lift or pray that your phone rings (which is not going to happen, phones don't work in lifts) to nudge the question. You know that conversations like this can lead to murky sub lanes that you always avoid.
The brain does exactly that to me. Throwing random uncomfortable questions and catching me off guard in the most unusual situations. While sipping wine at an upmarket bar I get slapped with questions like:
“ So why did you cringe at the slightly plump lady with flabby arms wearing that bareback top?”
“Shouldn’t you be championing body positivity like everyone else on Instagram?”
Other times the questions could be “Why do you not like TikTokers?” or “Why did you feel that slight pang of sadness when the other Instagrammer reached the 100K milestone?” or “Why do you love to read negative comments on that fashion bloggers’ post”?
These are off-putting questions. I deny them. I shut my brain with another glass of wine or another episode of Friends or another Instagram post about body positivity, mental health awareness, or climate change. These things work on you to momentarily distract your brain from believing that I am that person that I believe to be I am. It's confusing. I am not. We are not.
If at gunpoint I have to answer why I cringe at flabby arms and body hair, or hate Tiktokers or love negative comments on someone’s post my answer will be this- I am a selfish hypocrite and I hate myself. That’s the truth that can answer most of my “Why I do what I do?”
A little introspection and deep dive into the icy cold interiors of my inner self reveals that secretly hating, judging, and bringing people down have been my defense mechanism to cope with the big bad world. That’s how I compensate for my shortcomings. Ouch, it hurts to even write about it now.
So when I see a chubby lady with flabby arms confidently wearing a bareback top laughing away to glory with her girlfriends at a Sunday sundowner, I feel the pain of being stabbed by a blunt knife. It a slap on my snooty face shouting out loud that you don’t need toned arms to be happy and confident and enjoy a nice sundowner in your favourite breezy top. It hurts to face that it's so easy. Someone’s doing it right in front of me. And I can’t accept that. So what do I do? I judge. I hate. I bring them down.
You see I am inherently not a bad person. I have enough data points to prove that. I donate money to charitable causes, I speak out (on Instagram) about social injustices, I pay my bills on time, I treat people well (I am a people pleasure), I speak to my parents every day (most of the times they talk and I listen, just another story for another day). So you get the point. I am not evil.
I am not a saint either. I donate to people who are financially and socially a step below where I am, at the same time I also unfollow people who are about to reach their 100K milestone. I can’t see them move up. No matter how much I tell my friends “I am happy for you” deep down, secretly I am in pain.
At the risk of sounding like the toxic ex-boyfriend of mine, I have to say this, it’s not you, it’s me.
It’s not your flabby arms or body hair or 100K followers, it’s my built-up insecurities over the year that have found a cushy punching board in you to reflect and deflect my own issues. By hating you, what I do is for a moment catapult all my pain and stigmas and unresolved issues on to you, so that for a brief moment I can feel slightly better. I use you as a numbing agent for my own pain while causing you pain.
I know this. I know. Till the time I learn how to resolve this chain of toxicity, I want you to know and believe and remember that “It's not you, it’s me and I know.
