I often ponder how frequently others terrorize themselves. And by terrorize, I mean incessantly self analyze. My own cerebral capacities are subject to a recurrent onslaught of interrogation, all conducted by me. A constant questioning of the morality of my social dealings: Am I representing my character well? Am I making useful points to the conversation? Am I being kind? Am I being too kind? Do I have OCD, or pure O OCD, because I WOULDN’T WANT TO DIMINISH THE PAIN OF OTHERS WITH TRUE OCD TO MY MISAPPLICATION OF THE TERM, ahem. I think you see my point here. Then comes the more manageable, everyday criticisms: scrutinizing parts of my body that don’t measure up, rehashing the aspects of my life that have been reduced to mundanity and how much at fault I am for each of them, etc.

So, do others actually allow themselves an ounce of humanity? Are they genuinely more gracious toward themselves than I appear to be to myself? My prevalence of this trait and the perceived lack of it in others drives me up a wall (usually worse when I haven’t slept, have drank alcohol, eaten like shit recently, am under a lot of stress, ya know, the neurotic’s physiological checklist for mental sanity™). Sometimes, I wonder about this. Other times, I feel a deep resentment in my solitude.

If others do self-terrorize, though, what is the extent of their interrogation? How deeply do their questions penetrate? How much ground do they cover? Judging by the internal worlds of many I’ve gotten to know, their self-criticisms render a kind of… introspective flatness. They often lack perceptual code-switching, their questions posed along a single line of sight. Even if I knew they did, and they shared them with similar earnestness that I do, would I even care or feel this way? How much of this perception of other people’s suffering results from loneliness? I know this whole line veers toward the unempathetic and ego-centric to even consider. But alas, am a human.

ANYWAY back to me disabusing myself of the notion I’m allowed an ounce of humanity. How exhausting, the idea one must be perfected. To be a performer forever center stage, auditioning for the next Broadway show. And yet in reality, it’s just a conversation with the cashier at Walmart. It’s typing a text to a friend who’s struggling. It’s ceding space to the more erratic, capricious personalities in the room. Oh, to believe oneself above reproach.

But, in very human fashion, these thoughts are here one moment and gone in the next. Mine just seem to return in greater frequency in some phases than others. I’ve been working at this for years, trying to rewire my neural pathways. And don’t get me wrong, this year has brought some of the greatest peace I’ve known. The swings aren’t as prevalent as they once were.

And yet–still, at my core, there’s always this undercurrent, a hum I can’t tune out, and I keep circling back to a Sylvia Plath quote that’s lodged itself in my hippocampus:

“What horrifies me most is the idea of being useless: well-educated, brilliantly promising, and fading out into an indifferent middle age.”