Before I say anything, I’ll just say that this honestly isn’t a criticism I’m levelling at anyone I know in my life. Nor is this post against those with problems of self-imagery, or other mental health concerns. I’m discussing mostly myself and the music I listen to in this blog post.
Narcissism is something that most of us harbour to an extent in today’s world of selfies, but it’s generally something that we strive to keep to a minimum. But when you think of narcissism – of self-obsession – you always tend to think of people who are self-complimentary, or who spend an unhealthy amount of time on their appearance and trying to manage how others perceive them. But something that’s been on the edge of my mind for the last few years – and something that’s only fully hit me as I’ve revisited some heavier music that I’ve enjoyed over the years – is that hating yourself can be just as narcissistic as loving yourself.
So I’m listening to this Beartooth song for the first time. It’s called Loser. And for the most part, it’s a good song. But there’s this one lyric that stands out to me: “I was born just a little bit different.” And it gets under my skin.
Now, to be fair, I don’t know the context behind this lyric. It might be referring to a medical condition of the singer’s (or songwriter’s) that has affected their life for the worse. It may be referring to a situational disadvantage in their upbringing. But on a personal level, it reminds me painfully of my teenage self. Not to delve into too much detail, whilst I was never born into disadvantage or apathy, I lived through a personal tragedy at a young age, and was – and still am – actively aware of how it shaped me as a person going forwards. Which is fine. But I also became obsessed with comparing myself to others and discussing, at length, my emotions and how I was different to others in my fledgling literary works growing up. If I could go ten years back in time to give myself some advice, it’d be that going through a tragedy doesn’t make you any wiser, any more intelligent, or any more complex than those that you condemn as being “normal”.
I’ll be honest. I don’t entirely regret those years of self-evaluation. It was therapeutic, and laying down the metaphorical geography of my mind was probably essential to my development as a human being. But it was also an exercise in narcissism. A man who studies himself in the mirror for hours, whether he is practising his smile or spitting on himself, is still a man who studies himself in the mirror for hours. And, as with anything else that becomes the sole focus of your attention for an extended period of time, you lose the ability to view it from a fresh perspective, thereby blinding you to many issues that you’re spending hours of your life looking for.
I feel like a lot of people don’t realise that self-hatred can still be a self-obsession, if not moderated and managed. I know that a lot of the songwriters of my favourite music have analysed themselves in as much unhealthy scrutiny that I have. And whilst self-criticism and evaluation is always important, the point of obsession is as unhealthy to those around you as it is to yourself. Not just by voicing your self-remarks, but by thinking about them for hours and hours.
One more thing. I’m not saying that self-hatred or issues of self-image are a choice or a product of a changeable attitude, or anything remotely like that. To think such things would be to blatantly disregard the complexity and seriousness of mental health. I speak more directly of those whose self-evaluation is more about reasons of a selfish nature, as mine was. I’m nowhere near qualified or educated enough to speak intimately of such matters, but I believe there is a fundamental difference between issues of mental health, and issues of personality and attitude. But that’s a whole other blog post.
Well… this unasked-for blog post of commentary on self-obsession all came about when I decided to simply change my Twitter bio. I realised that I’d spent eight and a half years trying to sum myself up in less than 160 characters, growing more uncomfortable with each attempt; it is now suitably unspecific. But then, this mere self-analysis of the dangers of self-analysis only goes to show that following your own advice is as difficult as ignoring the face in the mirror.
Perpetually Perturbed 