Some Wounds Don’t Heal
Have you ever had a cut with a scab that stays on forever, and just when you think it’s ready to be peeled off, the cut reopens and you have to start all over again?
That’s how I feel every time someone tells me I’m “too much.”
I was taught, as a child, that because of the way my brain works, I will always be “too much” for most people. I knew, deep down, that even my family needed breaks from my energy, enthusiasm, and obsessions - and since I didn’t have friends, they were my barometer for how the world would treat me.
It was because of kindness that they encouraged me to take up less space, took me to therapy where I learned how to blend in, and inadvertently ingrained into my head that I can never fully be myself with anyone.
After many sessions with my child psychologist, I felt bad to inflict myself upon people - even my family. I became resentful that there was no room for the one coping mechanism for my OCD that actually works - choosing to obsess about something positive instead of something negative. I hate that in my childhood I was always bursting with energy and joy and positive obsessions and when they had nowhere to go, I shoved them down and down and down until, even now, they only pop out in specific circumstances when I feel safe from rejection.
These little moments feel so liberating, but they are rare. I try so hard to fit in, but inside, I’m screaming for the chance for my heart and passions to be let out. I’m frustrated that people can casually say “I’m so obsessed with this TV show/movie/band” but if I try the same thing, it’s weird and strange and makes people uncomfortable.
People tell me this in a variety of ways. A friend once told me - after she witnessed me and another friend exchanging Lord of the Rings-related puns - that she felt like I was intimidatingly smart and wouldn’t want to associate with anyone who didn’t get the jokes. At work, I’m told to branch out my topics of conversation even if I don’t know about those topics, and when I fall back on my usual MO of being quiet when I don’t have anything to say, I’m too meek or shy. And recently, my DM for D&D told me I was taking up too much space with roleplay.
My current therapist tells me that it’s about other people, not me - if they are uncomfortable and don’t have a way to deal with their feelings, they pin it on me. But I don’t believe her, even though I trust her with almost everything else. I don’t think so many people could be wrong, and after a lifetime of hearing it, I’ve grown to accept that my passionate, energetic, enthusiastic, obsessed self is something to hide and be ashamed of.
When I hear the words “too much,” it’s like flipping a switch. If I was comfortable with the person who told me this, I am no longer comfortable. I no longer want to share what matters to me, whether that means the big things or the little things. I feel an urge to “maliciously comply” with what they say - like if I am told I talk too much, I want to never open my mouth again around them.
And so, when I heard from my DM last week, I wondered what to do about D&D since it is one of my favorite activities. I thought of so many ways I could stand up for myself, and then used none of them, since I was told so many times as a child that my social skills are bad enough that if someone tells me I’m “too much,” they’re right.
And so, I stayed quiet. It was a roleplay-heavy session - one practically designed for me - and I only spoke when absolutely required. My lack of participation forced the person in the group who doesn’t like roleplay into center stage, and with a character not designed for that, he struggled. I let myself have the one petty moment of “Oh yeah, my +18 in Persuasion (one of the main dialogue skills in D&D) would have helped here,” before I returned to my silence. But in the end, I think the only one who was hurting was me.
And the worst part was, no one thought to say or do anything about the fact that the usually friendly and chatty Ellie was imitating a mannequin. I was listening to the feedback. Being a good girl who does what I’m told, and there’s no need to comment on that, no matter how much it hurt me.
I don’t like lashing out when I’m hurt. I don’t like that I have this big, blaring button on my chest that keeps getting pushed no matter how hard I try to blend in and act “normal.” I don’t like that I befriend people who support me to a point, then tell me I’m “too much” and reinforce that the only person who really wants to care about me 100% of the time is me.
I have some bright spots on the horizon - conventions, certain online meetups, and a trip to New Zealand in nine months that I’ve wanted to go on since I was in high school. In these places, I don’t have to mask at all. Everyone is either interested in the things I care about to the same degree as I am or find my enthusiasm an asset.
But whenever I let my guard down in regular circumstances, and I’m told that I’m “too much,” this is what goes through my head: You’re just as bad at hiding your OCD as when you were a kid. You’re doing it wrong. No one wants to see the real you. Why would you think you could trust these people?
When I think like this, I try to remember the quote I have pinned to the wall of my cubicle, from Danielle Laporte:
“You will always be too much for something for someone: too big, too loud, too soft, too edgy. If you round out your edges, you lose your edge. Apologize for mistakes. Apologize for unintentionally hurting someone - profusely. But don’t apologize for being who you are.”
When I look at this quote, I feel a scab begin to form on that ancient cut once more. One day, I hope I will get to a place where the scab won’t just rip off again, painfully. One day, I hope I can be in a situation where being myself fully is no longer a bad thing, and I can finally, actually heal.
Ellie, a writer in the Chicago area, was diagnosed with OCD at age 3. She hopes to educate others about her condition and end the stigma against mental illness.