When You Believe You’re Too Much And Not Enough
Turns out that I’m not the only one who feels this way.
I have always believed that I am simultaneously too much and not enough. Too complicated, too intense, and too needy. Not sufficiently sunny in my outlook or flexible enough in how I meet the world. Most of all, not compelling enough to be inherently loveable.
It’s a tricky balancing act.
I don’t know why I believed all this as a child as I was raised in a stable, loving family, and my two sisters unquestioningly accepted their place in the world and felt entitled to happiness.
I was an inaccessible, pensive youngster who lived largely in her imagination, a little girl trying desperately to be what the world demanded of her.
I was never treated cruelly or neglected, but something inside me automatically interpreted even harmless messages as criticism. My mother told everyone I was her “funny little thing”, which I interpreted to mean that there was something fundamentally odd about me, something that needed to be fixed.
It never occurred to me that maybe other children seemed just fine but felt the separateness from the world I experienced. I wonder now how many of those around me were also going through the motions, busyness masking a vague sense of futility and disappointment in life and themselves. I know now that picture-perfect lives are rarely as they appear.
I wasn’t unhappy as I grew older, a little melancholy perhaps, but there were moments of pure elation and times when the blandness of growing up in the suburbs was acceptable to me, even welcome. My schedule was crammed with tests and essays, training and games, friends, and parties. Eventually, there was a boy, and for a time, he was enough.
But even with the pleasant distractions of a comfortable existence, I always wanted more and felt guilty about that. My life increasingly became about striving to achieve and prove my worthiness, coupled with a process of reduction of what I saw as my excessive expectations of life.
I was clever — not effortlessly so — but enough to realise that working hard was a sure-fire way to get noticed and be validated. I toiled away, and when it all got too much, I retreated into my imaginary world.
I dreamed of being a writer and telling stories, but that dream was too big for my little life, too pretentious and ambitious. Better to ask for less, life taught me.
Perhaps it was inevitable that the duelling forces of too much and not enough would collide at some stage, and they did so spectacularly when I developed anorexia nervosa as a teenager.
Here was the perfect battlefield
Forget everything you think you know about anorexia. An eating disorder is a dance of too much and not enough.
At its core, anorexia nervosa is about the denial of need. That would be the too much part of the equation.
It is a diminution of the space you take up in the world. This played out not just through the meagre sustenance I allowed myself but through much broader self-punishment, a severing of connection with the world, and most of all, a rejection of love. My illness had surprisingly little to do with food or weight.
Anorexia is also about not being worthy of nourishment, the most basic human need and right. And even while I flirted with death, my disease intensified the perfectionism I had cultivated and fed my craving to prove that I deserved to exist. Never enough.
The negative beliefs I held about myself before my illness only intensified after navigating the medical system. Skinny Clare was unacceptable on every level as I no longer had the currency of beauty or compliance. In seeking to become invisible, I became the object of ridicule and judgement.
Thankfully I won the battle against my body but not the war against my shame; my mental illness is a scar I will always carry even if others no longer see it.
The focus on achievement did not disappear when I recovered because I still believed it was proof of value. Even with my health restored, I cultivated what the world demanded of me in the most calculated and desperate of ways.
I rebuilt my life, successfully as it turned out, but what others saw as achievement was just an attempt to prove that I deserved the privileged life I had created.
I am not alone
For the most part, my self-destruction was inexplicable to others. However, I have come to believe that the existential struggle that caused my illness is far from uncommon. Many people, I now think, feel too much and not enough.
There is a myriad of causes. Sometimes it is trauma, addiction, or disability. Sometimes, unhealthy family dynamics. Often, it is nothing more than my starting point, a fragile sense of self that is battered by life.
While my struggles played out visibly and dramatically, for many people, the push-pull of too much and not enough is just a dull underpinning to their lives.
I see this most frequently in my professional life. It has a name now — Imposter Syndrome. I know many talented, capable people who live with the fear that their success is fraudulent, that their ineptitude will be discovered at some point, and their careers will unravel.
It’s easy to pick these people; they are the ones, like me, who over-deliver every time, no matter the personal cost. Waiting to be unmasked is a fraught and exhausting way to live that undermines people’s innate talents and courage. A need to repeatedly defend your competency restricts spontaneity, creativity, and joy.
Change is achievable (but hard)
Changing the inner narrative upon which you have built your self-image is challenging. Neuroscience tells us that the brain’s neuroplasticity allows for such change, but awareness of negative self-beliefs is just the beginning of an arduous journey.
In his book, Hardwiring Happiness, Dr Rick Hanson, PhD explains that all brains have a bias to negative thoughts, so it’s challenging for everyone, not just me, to focus on the positive.
The brain’s ability to create new neural pathways is enhanced by the building blocks of good health: a nutrient-rich diet, adequate sleep, and a balanced lifestyle that encompasses reflection, and gratitude. One strategy Dr Hanson recommends is visualisations that link as many senses and positive emotions to our goals as possible. Mindfulness, paying attention to where your mind is wandering and concentrating on the present, quietens a negative inner voice. Journaling can also be a useful way to identify your triggers.
The starting point for me was accepting that I am an unreliable witness, a poor judge of what I have to offer the world. I am still Mum’s funny little thing in many ways, far more likely to interpret things negatively than positively. I pounce on criticism, hear praise as only the faintest of whispers.
If I am to change my inner narrative, I must embed healthier, more realistic beliefs about myself, which means constantly challenging my internal judgment. I must rigorously draw a distinction between beliefs and the truth.
Unfortunately, my mind has been on autopilot for a long time, running down well-worn pathways that require no effort. And changing thought patterns is never quick. It is estimated that it takes up to 10,000 repetitions to create a new habit and develop the associated neural pathway, so there is no shortcut to replacing negative beliefs with more balanced ones.
What I need to do now is see myself through the gentler eyes of the people around me who treat me with the compassion I have always struggled to extend to myself. They find my complexity interesting rather than problematic, my intensity a rich source of creativity, and my neediness proof of a prodigious capacity to give and receive love.
I suspect that I will always yearn to possess a lightness of spirit and an unquestioning acceptance of life, but I see now that the people I value don’t ask this of me. They not only accept my brokenness but love me for it.
So, this is the task before me; like the small, agonising mouthfuls of food that I had to swallow to regain weight, I must gradually inhale other people’s acceptance and respect, make it my own.
