I was scared both last night and today that someone in my imaginary audience might one day read these posts and determine by them that I am nothing more than a narcissist. That I am just another self-obsessed person who spends too much time navel gazing, and then, due to his/her delusions of grandeur, inflicts this self-centeredness on the world by putting words to it. It was fear that someone else might perceive me like this, and the desire to control others’ perceptions of me, that riddled me with paralyzing insecurity. I couldn’t say this or that or that other thing, but then was there anything I could say? Last night when it was late and I was exhausted, the answer was a resounding, “No.”

I realized tonight that my fear is both totally founded and totally unfounded. Because the truth is, I am a self-obsessed person who spends too much time navel gazing. I do have delusions of grandeur. I am inflicting my self-centeredness on the world by writing about it in a public forum. Everything I feared someone else might perceive me to be is is, in fact, part of who I am. And, it’s not all of who I am.

I was talking to this friend of mine a few days ago about this site and he, being very protective of me and wanting only the best for me, said in a somewhat concerned manner, “I just don’t want it to become about the readers.” Meaning, that the writing ought to always be mine. It should remain of me and for me. I should always be the only reason that I am doing this. I understand and appreciate his concern, but I also think tonight is a perfect example of why having a potential audience is so crucial for this experiment of mine.

I want the whole world to love me. It is impossible to be loved by everyone. I believe on some level that if anyone ever really knew me, everyone would despise me. It is equally impossible to be hated by everyone. Part of being with myself as I am and simultaneously sharing it with the world, is becoming more okay with the fact that some people will love me, some will hate me, and most will never, ever think of me or even know that I exist (this last one pains me most of all).

Yes, I spend an exorbitant amount of time on inward reflection. I’m sure there are books about why this unhealthy. I’m sure there are books that prove that this is the cause of my Depression. I’m sure there are books that link this to my history of alcoholism. I’m sure there are books–lots and lots of books–about how personal freedom and peace of mind are only found when one turns one’s thoughts away from self and directs them to others. It’s no wonder that I’ve been telling myself for years that my seemingly self-involved nature is just further proof that I’m a horrible human being. Especially given that I own some of these books.

I’m self-involved. I spend most of my day in some kind of self-reflection, self-analysis, or daydream to escape the self-reflection or self-analysis. Why is that wrong?