I Care What You Think
And it’s killing me
I care what you think. I care a lot.
I’m in agony when it seems like you think poorly of me — of my appearance, of my brains, of who I am. I die when it seems like you don’t even think of me.
I want to break free. I want to free myself from the prison that is the thoughts of others.
They’re just thoughts, after all. They’re not even real — I mean, they don’t even take physical shape. They exist in the head, a space that, really, only one person ever has full access to.
Then why does it bug me — no, bother and stress and pain me — to know what you and everyone else is thinking? Why can’t I just tell myself, “They’re thoughts, nothing more!” and believe it?
When I step out of the house, I care what you think of my outfit, my face. How I walk, too.
When I talk to you face to face, I care what you think. How I speak, my voice, my posture, my overall presentation.
When I post online I care what you think. That’s why I post. Of course I’m going to take it down if you don’t like it. Of course I’m going to neurotically monitor how many likes and mentions and comments I get.
What can I say? I care too much.
The other day, I saw you with your friends and I couldn’t help but say nasty things to myself. “You’re ugly. You’re stupid. You’re unworthy.” Because only through these words could I reconcile the fact that I’m alone.
You’re not the only one who’s cursed me. I care what you think, no doubt about that. But I also care about what the next person thinks. And the next person. And the next person after that. Line them up. I care about what all of them think.
I see monks and I envy them. How have they achieved such infinite lightness? They definitely don’t care what you think. They don’t care if they’re handsome or fit or intelligent or nothing. They have somehow done the impossible. They have let go.
Not monks alone. Normal people too. Whenever I spot someone who strikes me as free — maybe they’re wearing no makeup or are in an atmospheric zone — I envy them. I wish with all my heart I could be them, I could know what they know, possess the secrets they possess.
But day after day, I struggle. Each day is the same. A carbon copy. A roll of awful days of me caring what you think.
Soon I’ll meet my mentor. A savior of some kind. A human being who will release me from this prison and allow me to fly. It’s hard to grow wings. Don’t we all crave attention and validation? Love? We’d rather stay on the ground and chase that stuff.
Honestly, not me. I’d rather not. Not anymore.
It won’t be long now. It’s coming. That human being who will release me. They will convince me that there’s nothing in it for me to care what you think. It’s not like I haven’t heard that before. I have. But somehow it doesn’t sink in.
Today is the day. I will finally leave this place where I care what you think. I will shed that skin and rise from the ashes. I just pray that I don’t burn up trying too hard to not care what you think, because isn’t that pursuit really just a reflection of the obvious — that I care what you think.
— E.
