I've always had jealousy issues out the ass. Never about material things but about characteristics in others that I envied.

For example, for my entire childhood and adolescence I was terrified of beautiful people, positive that they were superior to me and petrified that they would notice me or even reject me. Then, as I started coming out of my shell, I supplemented this completely irrational terror with general rage and loathing, often lashing out at those beautiful people around me with snide commentary or other destructive behaviors that are embarrassingly juvenile in retrospect. (And, as I've discussed, I just always assumed that talking shit about the high school bombshell [for example] couldn't possibly affect her [negatively or otherwise] as she was beautiful, desired by everyone and therefore, invincible to the hateful notions of a mediocre nobody like myself. And yes, I know, it's pathetic and extremely screwed up, but this is what those years of therapy have helped move past. I'm just giving you a little background.) I even began to avoid reading or looking at beautiful people because I was absorbed with constant self-loathing and the nagging feeling that I wasn't good enough and never would be. I refused to admire beautiful actresses or musicians or other figureheads and felt a bitter fear and resentment of anyone publicly celebrated for their looks, even if this person no longer existed. I avoided popular television shows, magazines with beautiful women on the cover, even movies with classic beauties in the lead...So yeah, I was a bit of a wreck.
Then, toward the end of my teens, I realized that not only was my fear and loathing of beautiful people childish and ridiculous, but it was extremely limiting if I was going to incorporate the company of women into my life in a healthy, trusting forum. Um, also, I started realizing that I was petrified of looking at beautiful women because they turned me on and that freaked me completely out and I didn't want to deal with what that might actually mean about me and my sexuality because (:::GASP!:::) what if I was actually "into" women!?! But I liked men! A lot! What if I liked both!?!? That would be unseemly, sin-laden madness! I mean, I'd always been an advocate for gay rights, but from a safe distance as "that sort of lifestyle" didn't pertain to me personally... I thought.
So I started working on my ways of viewing women around me and considering the notion that maybe I could recognize that a woman is beautiful without feeling threatened or acting like she was somehow out to destroy me and my self-worth. Hell, maybe I could even be friends with a beautiful woman and maybe one of those women would think I had admirable qualities, too. Honestly, such a radical notion was completely foreign to me, maybe because of societal regimes that condition women to compete against each other, maybe because I was submerged in self-consciousness, or maybe a combination of both. Whatever the case, I started appreciating and enjoying all female forms, finding ways to celebrate femininity and sexuality in a number of ways from collecting Playboys and classic pinup art to reading the autobiographies of smart, powerful, beautiful women. I drew inspiration from those women with extraordinary qualities (aesthetically, intellectually, or philosophically) and finally learned to co-exist with, appreciate, and celebrate women I admire without wasting time focusing on how I don't compare. Hooray!

However, in the last few years, my fear and discomfort with aesthetically gifted people has shifted over to those with flourishing intellectual gifts. Most specifically, those who are able to transpose their brilliance into text and both entertain and enlighten readers with their words. I so envy those people with the capacity to craft beautifully socially-relevant fiction and change the way people think about literature that I avoid great novels out of fear that I'll doubt myself as a writer even more. I'm so positive that my mind could never volley the witty sentiments of modern-day philosophers that I read a few chapters of their work and then walk away for a while, stewing in my own ineptitude and rereading all my previous essays and drafts, convincing myself of my complete lack of talent.
And I can't even read memoirs or autobiographies in the genres I dream of breaking into anymore as I've wholly convinced myself that there's no originality in anything I have to say. If I talk about depression, I'm an Elizabeth Wurtzel knockoff. If I write about pregnancy, I'm holding onto the tailcoats of Vicki Iovine and Jenny McCarthy. If I talk about overcoming addiction, I'm jumping on the Augusten Burroughs/Elizabeth Wurtzel (again)/Koren Zailckas/Anthony Kiedis/MillionLittleLiesonOprah bandwagon. If I write about my-hilarious-self I'm just a David Sedaris/Sloane Crosley/Jenn Lancaster/Dave Eggers poseur. If I blather about my opinions I'm obviously wanting to be all Chuck Klosterman-y or Michael-Moore-y or Sherman Alexie-y. It's like every facet of talking about oneself has been explored and exhausted, and I'm just not smart enough to think of a new, exciting way to publicly blather about my completely average, Caucasian, American, middle-class life.

Fucking "WAaahhh!", right?

I know, okay?

Anyway, this has become more apparent in the years since I graduated college, when I've found myself removed from academia and the exciting churning-out of ideas and movements that are found in universities across the globe. Suddenly, my encouraged expression is limited to reading whatever I can in my spare time and composing unedited ramblings on this tiny online blog. Suddenly, I'm not even able to discuss literary movements anymore [even as an excuse for actually taking part in them] and I'm detached from whatever new creative energies are flourishing in the exciting world of art and intellect. And that's when I get all self-doubt-y and unmotivated and "What's the point?"-esque and generally pathetic on myself again.

This being said, my crazily hyper-introspection has caused me to push forward and continue reading, even when I feel totally inadequate in comparison to whatever author I'm consuming. I have considered starting a book club or a casual online writers' forum/workshop among some of my writerly friends to create an outlet for those of us who feel disconnected out in the real world. And, mostly, I'm still writing.

Once, when I was a lot younger I was watching the men's gymnastics portion of some Olympics at some location that I cannot recall at all. As each competitor was performing his routine on the uneven bars, the cameras kept panning back to the American Olympian who was sitting on the bench with his eyes closed, listening to music. I asked my mom why he looked so bored and uncommitted, she told me he wasn't watching the competition and was focusing instead on his routine. When the man got up to compete, he performed the most perfect routine I've honestly ever seen in Olympic gymnastics and scored 6.0's across the board to win the gold. We were watching it live, so my mom couldn't have planned this event being such a solid lesson to me, but it stuck with me for years. It seems to come to mind at this juncture as well.

So, to tie up this entry with a nice little Westernized literary bow, what I'm slowly working to appreciate the similar work of those around me, but focus my energy on my own performance instead of hating/fearing others' successes.

The problem, of course, is my realized need to see exactly what I'm getting into, keep the wool off my eyes and disillusion the shit out of myself...

I still think Gauguin was on to something when he moved to Tahiti.