One of the things I've been discussing with TNT lately is my self-
schemas: basically those meta-terms in which I think of myself. For instance: nerdy, weird, writer, curious.
In middle and high school, I described myself as a nerd in a pretty negative sense. I liked the fact that I was smart and I didn't try to hide it, but my hard-core
geekery made me a little uneasy. It wasn't cool to like science or reading, to attend random lectures or the planetarium. So I kept these likes and hobbies to myself. I wanted to like that I was nerdy, but I just wasn't there yet. Fast forward several years through college and two stints of grad school, and I can say that I've fully embraced my nerdy side. I love learning, I love esoterica, and I love science. I've turned the 13-year-old Carrie's negative view of the word "nerdy" and turned it into one of my almost-30-year-old self's favorite adjectives.
That isn't really the self-schema I've been talking with TNT about. The self-schema I really struggle with is this one: weird. I feel inexplicably, unalterably weird and different. Freakish. I conceal this under a thin veneer of decent hair days and minimal knowledge of pop culture. I always felt different than the other kids. It didn't help that I was teased a fair bit and began fearing every little difference that might possibly be made fun of (my voluminous reading habits, for instance, or the fact that I listened to totally different music, or the clothes I wore, or whatever). Psychologically and socially, too, I felt like I operated on a totally different plane. I was always more shy and inhibited, and I always felt far more comfortable around my teachers than the other kids in my class. I didn't connect that easily. Looking around, I saw the other kids in my class making friends and chatting and having fun and figured the problem was me.
Ultimately, I became rather scared of and uneasy with the rather unique parts of my personality. So I pulled back. I stopped sharing. I marinated in my perceived freakishness, which was only amplified by said endless marination. No one understood me. It was hopeless. I should grow up and be a hermit. Melodramatic statements like that really didn't help the situation. And so all of those really unusual things about myself became liabilities instead of assets.
The eating disorder was both evidence for this freakishness (I can't eat, this grain of rice will make me gain weight but not you) and an
antidote to it (I bitched about my thighs with the rest of Young Female America). It was almost a culturally-acceptable way to be a little weird. Now that I'm in recovery, of course, I realize that a) an eating disorder is an illness and b) there are lots of other ways to express my uniqueness that won't kill me.
Still, I have a general negative connotation with the word "weird," and I still use it to describe myself. I read books about smallpox while listening to Celtic rock bands featuring lads in black leather kilts while enjoying my new aromatherapy candles. It's a pretty unusual combination. But the point of my discussions with TNT weren't to accept the fact that I'm probably not as weird as I think I am (though that's also true), but to embrace my weirdness.
There's a campaign in Austin, Texas called "
Keep Austin Weird ," which aims to keep the unique, individually-owned stores in downtown in business by keeping larger chain stores out. The idea is that the weird is a good thing for Austin, and it's something worth keeping and treasuring. So I've kind of co-opted that phrase and started my own campaign to "Keep Carrie Weird." The weird isn't going anywhere, so I may as well make the best of it, right?
I learned to embrace my nerdy side, so I figure I can learn to embrace (or at least accept) my weird side, too. It's like they always say: if you've got it, flaunt it.
In middle and high school, I described myself as a nerd in a pretty negative sense. I liked the fact that I was smart and I didn't try to hide it, but my hard-core geekery made me a little uneasy. It wasn't cool to like science or reading, to attend random lectures or the planetarium. So I kept these likes and hobbies to myself. I wanted to like that I was nerdy, but I just wasn't there yet. Fast forward several years through college and two stints of grad school, and I can say that I've fully embraced my nerdy side. I love learning, I love esoterica, and I love science. I've turned the 13-year-old Carrie's negative view of the word "nerdy" and turned it into one of my almost-30-year-old self's favorite adjectives.
That isn't really the self-schema I've been talking with TNT about. The self-schema I really struggle with is this one: weird. I feel inexplicably, unalterably weird and different. Freakish. I conceal this under a thin veneer of decent hair days and minimal knowledge of pop culture. I always felt different than the other kids. It didn't help that I was teased a fair bit and began fearing every little difference that might possibly be made fun of (my voluminous reading habits, for instance, or the fact that I listened to totally different music, or the clothes I wore, or whatever). Psychologically and socially, too, I felt like I operated on a totally different plane. I was always more shy and inhibited, and I always felt far more comfortable around my teachers than the other kids in my class. I didn't connect that easily. Looking around, I saw the other kids in my class making friends and chatting and having fun and figured the problem was me.
Ultimately, I became rather scared of and uneasy with the rather unique parts of my personality. So I pulled back. I stopped sharing. I marinated in my perceived freakishness, which was only amplified by said endless marination. No one understood me. It was hopeless. I should grow up and be a hermit. Melodramatic statements like that really didn't help the situation. And so all of those really unusual things about myself became liabilities instead of assets.
The eating disorder was both evidence for this freakishness (I can't eat, this grain of rice will make me gain weight but not you) and an antidote to it (I bitched about my thighs with the rest of Young Female America). It was almost a culturally-acceptable way to be a little weird. Now that I'm in recovery, of course, I realize that a) an eating disorder is an illness and b) there are lots of other ways to express my uniqueness that won't kill me.
Still, I have a general negative connotation with the word "weird," and I still use it to describe myself. I read books about smallpox while listening to Celtic rock bands featuring lads in black leather kilts while enjoying my new aromatherapy candles. It's a pretty unusual combination. But the point of my discussions with TNT weren't to accept the fact that I'm probably not as weird as I think I am (though that's also true), but to embrace my weirdness.
There's a campaign in Austin, Texas called " Keep Austin Weird ," which aims to keep the unique, individually-owned stores in downtown in business by keeping larger chain stores out. The idea is that the weird is a good thing for Austin, and it's something worth keeping and treasuring. So I've kind of co-opted that phrase and started my own campaign to "Keep Carrie Weird." The weird isn't going anywhere, so I may as well make the best of it, right?
I learned to embrace my nerdy side, so I figure I can learn to embrace (or at least accept) my weird side, too. It's like they always say: if you've got it, flaunt it.