Why We Want What We Want

At one point in my college career, I was a psychology major. It actually lasted for a couple of years (unlike most of my majors, which were crosswalks from one path to another... I funneled through them with great frequency). I often remember things I studied during that time and attempt to apply various theories to my life. To be honest, I do the same thing with what I learned in "Play Analysis for the Theatre" (I once came up with a very compelling and relatively accurate way of dissecting a friend's love life by comparing it to Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?... Yes, his relationship was, and is, that bizarre).

One theory (it had some form of study to support it, but I can't for the life of me remember what that study was) stated that when you do something to help someone else, YOU end up liking THEM more. They don't suddenly appreciate you more and want to be around you more. Oh, no. That would be far too obvious. Instead, you gain a greater appreciation for them. Perhaps it's because doing something for someone else gives you a sense of accomplishment or validity that you associate with happiness, and then there's some sort of quasi-Pavlovian response that makes you want to feel that again. Or, to be terse, maybe people just want to feel needed. Anyway, a tip for all you guys and gals out there: if you want someone to like you, get them to do things for you that you can't do yourself (a friend of mine recently suggested that I ask others to put letters into envelopes for me, as obviously that's something that I struggle with... don't judge me).

I fall into the trap of helping others too much, and subsequently caring more for them than they do for me. I like to say that I have a Savior Complex. To be honest, I'm not certain that's what it's called. I might have named it after the Something Corporate song, "I Want to Save You" (while I was in Rome, I listened to that song every night before I went to bed... and usually cried). I constantly feel the need to "save" people. I surround myself with people who are screwed up, because I somehow know that I can fix them. Can I? Sometimes, but not always. Some people cannot be cured, and others don't want to be cured. Some people actually like being abused and tormented by their inner-demons. And some people, no matter how much guidance or advice you send in their direction, will continue to make the masochistic choices that have been keeping them firmly rooted in a self-inflicted depression.

Why do I seek out these people? Because on some level, I think that once I fix them, they'll be able to fix me (the song I mentioned before contains the lyrics "I want to save you/I need you/Save me, too.") I know that I need saving. I need someone to come into my life, see everything that I'm doing wrong, and tell me how to change it. No, I need them to force me to change it. I'm too afraid to do it on my own. I've been trying to win a war against my fears for about 2.5 years now (before that, I was completely content with them ruling my life). Every once in awhile, I have a major breakthrough (usually around a time of metamorphosis, as I mentioned before) with one or more of my personal demons. While some are vanquished permanently (I'm pretty much done with my fear of singing in public, thanks to a production of Cinderella and many rounds of alcohol-assisted karaoke), others haunt me for years. My social anxiety pops its head back in every six months or so. I am in constant need of validation, or else I am at great risk of returning to a hermit-inspired existence (ah, here's a bit of proof that I'm a walking contradiction: I'm unable to accept compliments, but if I don't get reassurance I go into wild strains of depression. If I weren't so cheerful right now, I'd start to wonder if I'm a mess). This gets particularly bad in February of every year. No good reason for that... Perhaps I have Seasonal Affective Disorder?

By the way, I'm a bit of a hypochondriac. Not the sort that thinks pain means I'm dying. I've never been concerned about having cancer, a heart attack, ringworm, etc. No, instead of physical hypochondria, I have psychological hypochondria. A thinking man's hypochondria, I like to call it. I was convinced that when I got to college, my dormant schizophrenia would manifest itself. Didn't happen, for the record. When everyone at work started getting sick, I began washing my hands multiple times whenever I went to the ladies room. Obviously, I was terrified that this was "ritualizing": a sign of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. I sporadically question whether I'm bipolar. The only thing wrong with my brain is a new-fashioned case of Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder. I also have the occasional bout with insomnia (I'm hyperactive, so of course I don't sleep... makes perfect sense), which I have determined makes me cathemeral (meaning that I have a completely unpredictable sleeping pattern. I like to think that it makes me special).

Anyway, back to the Savior thing. The current fellow in my life once said that he has the desire to be "that guy" for whatever gal he is currently pursuing. The guy who will step up to the plate. The guy who will understand her like no one else can. "That guy." As soon as he said that, I immediately equated it to my own need to heal others. Maybe my goal is to be "that girl", but I've just found a different way of saying it. Maybe this fellow and I will be able to save each other...

But logically, I know that isn't true.

If you've ever been on an airplane, you've heard the whole "in case of emergency" speech (if you haven't been on an airplane, go watch the pilot episode of Lost and it should help you to understand what I'm about to delve into). If there should be some problem with the air pressure in the cabin, oxygen masks will drop down from the ceiling. Your instruction is to put on your own mask. You are to make sure it is securely fashioned to your head before attempting to help those around you who may be in need of assistance. Trying to help someone else when you're not getting a proper amount of oxygen to your brain is just going to put both of you in more danger.

The major downfall of the Savior Complex: it's a sham. It cannot succeed. You will never win. How can you possibly help someone else when you don't know how to help yourself?

Besides, I'm not certain that a Savior Complex even exists. Maybe it's just human nature. A friend of mine once said that "women want to be wanted and men need to be needed." Or maybe it's the other way around. I can't remember. I always had difficulty trying to figure out what the difference was. Isn't being needed just a very strong form of being wanted? I understand the meaning a little more if it's rephrased as "women want to be objects of desire and men want their presence to be vital." Of course, that's not as catchy of a phrase.

Anyway, I don't believe this theory at all. Mostly because I don't enjoy sweeping generalizations. Or things divided by gender. I'm a major supporter of gender equality. I suppose I'm a huge hypocrite, as I attended a women's college instead of a co-educational institution. Men are not allowed to attend simply because they are male. And I chose to go there, so I suppose on some level I do believe that there are differences between men and women. But in general, I believe that any "women vs. men" theories are wrong.

There is one subject on which, I fear, I am terribly sexist. I'm not bisexual. Nothing is more sexist than that. Being bisexual is being willing to love anyone, regardless of gender. It's a very open-minded state of being. I've also heard it described as greedy, which I won't argue against (I've met a couple bisexuals who seemed as though they were just in it as a way of hedging their bets). I feel almost guilty about the fact that I prefer men to women, and I have tried to open myself up to the possibility of bisexual relationships in the past. I tried especially hard when one incredibly terrific girl started making passes at me in college. She was intelligent, talented, attractive, and funny. She was everything I'd look for in a man, but I just wasn't into it. I'm embarrassed by how sexist that is.

I find many women attractive. Gabrielle Union and Rachel McAdams, for example. Of course, it's more a situation of "I wish I could be her" than "I want her." I just enjoy men too much. Give me Matt Damon or Michael Bublé, and I'll rip myself apart in gleeful celebration (which would be rather stupid, as then I wouldn't get to enjoy the desirable specimen of man that had been bestowed upon me... I must rethink this). I think, on some level, everyone is a little bit bisexual. Just a little. Usually a small enough amount that people can live their entire lives only seeking one gender and be completely content with that. Most people never acknowledge it. Maybe some don't even realize it. I, personally, will never actually attempt to start anything with a woman, although I certainly understand the appeal. Perhaps that's why I wish my reflection looked more like Isla Fisher than me.

I look into mirrors a great deal. I have several in my new apartment, which is terribly exciting. Have you ever stared into a mirror for so long that your face stops making sense? You stop seeing your own mental image of yourself, and you begin to see your face for its components. It's interesting. I always wonder what people see when they look at me. Do they see me as I see myself? Is their mental image of me characterized more strongly by my eyes or my mouth? (I recently had a semi-stranger tell me that she thought my mouth was "captivating". I didn't know how to take that. I think I became a little self-conscious about my mouth as a result, which is probably the opposite of a logical reaction.)

Sometimes I dance in front of the mirror, to see if I'm as insane a dancer as I am in my mind's eye. Generally, what I do isn't nearly as hideous as I think it is. Of course, even if it were appallingly bad, that wouldn't stop me from dancing. I love to express myself through movement. Dancing is probably the only thing I can think of that makes me temporarily throw out my self-conscious nature. I spent the majority of last weekend dancing around my apartment in my underwear, singing into a lamp as though it were a colorful microphone. I rock out at levels you wouldn't believe when I'm alone. I'm lucky that none of my neighbors have complained. But then, I don't complain when they turn up the volume on their televisions at 10:30pm and I can hear incomprehensible Spanish murmuring. So I think we're even. Maybe they enjoy hearing me sing and dance. Who knows? I like to think that they do.

I always hope that I'm brightening up other people's days just a little. Knowing that I make other people smile makes me smile. It's a weird sort of tit-for-tat relationship that they don't even know exists. A friend of mine once said that there's no such thing as altruism, because anything you do to help someone else is really just a form of self-validation. Maybe he's right. Making people happy makes me happy. But I suppose that's the same sort of vaguely cyclical logic that leads me to believe that saving someone else will make me saved.

My aunt says that "part of wanting someone is knowing that they want you," which I suppose is in a similar vein. That idea always worries me when I'm interested in someone who shows signs of reciprocating interest. Is he only interested in me because he can sense that I'm interested in him? Or, conversely, am I only interested in him because I noticed on some level that he was interested in me? These are the sorts of questions that can make you go batty. It's best for me if I avoid thinking on them all together. But, as you should know after reading my writing, I can't stop thinking about anything for very long. I get stuck in long, winding waves of painful cognizance.

I'm terribly paranoid about everything (paranoia -- yet another mental disease that I don't actually suffer from but worry about constantly. I'm paranoid about being paranoid, if that's possible. Of course, I'm relatively confident that I'm misusing the word paranoid, but I don't care. This is my blog, and I'll use whatever words I think will get the point across). I worry about my relationships a great deal. I become concerned with whether people like me (and then I go through fits of joyous elation when it becomes apparent that they do. There's a little bit of Sally Field in me, I suppose). After the things I've written over the last two days, I'm beginning to wonder if I'm too complex of a person. How can anyone possibly deal with me? The best ways to handle me are counter-intuitive. I'm warped and quixotic. And somehow, I'm simultaneously concerned with being boring. I'm a puzzle that no one seems equipped to solve (and I include myself in that).

So for now, I'm going to return to my normal, non-typed form of soul-searching. Thank you for reading. Do come again.

~A~