Physical discomfort has always been a relatively straightforward affair. It is uncomfortable; a definable source whose consequence is a net negative. It is a thing to be examined and eradicated, flushed away, expunged, minimized.
I was in middle school when the realization hit — I was not like the other boys. There was virtually no interest in girls, at least not in the same way as my classmates. This dissonance led to my first bout of emotional discomfort. The knee-jerk reaction at the time was shallow acceptance. I accepted the intense discomfort, welcomed it with open arms, and rationalized that there is just something wrong with me. Maybe it is just a problem that needs a little adjustment, right?
And so it went. My formative years became an exercise in self-correction. Early to the locker room and changed at warp speed before anyone else got there, “forgot” gym clothes, scheduled one-on-one instrument lessons with the band teacher during gym, sneaked in liquid courage, anything to avoid the discomfort. I calculated and weighed my glances at boys and girls to make sure they were evenly distributed; not too long, not too short, not too direct or indirect. Under no circumstances was wrist flexion allowed. Extension was okay as long as it was not extreme and infrequent. I learned to define bad as effeminate and effeminate as the behavior of the boys who “mysteriously” disappeared for a few days, only to return as shells of their former selves, silent, with healing black eyes and shattered souls. I knew it was wrong to be the guy with bruised fists getting quietly cheered on by students and winked at by staff; but I became fixated on who not to be instead of becoming the person I started to become, until eventually that became me. The discomfort became like a child to me; something to be nurtured, watched, protected at all costs.
Self-correction quickly evolved into self-sabotage; after all, I am still uncomfortable, so there must still be something wrong. All this correction seems to have been for naught, but numbing was really effective, and at least I can pass for normal. Good enough, and hey, if I am high, drunk, and/or otherwise emotionally shut down, I do not even have to think about this stuff! Discomfort became my home and natural state.
Fast-forward a few years, school is now over and I feel more adrift than ever. I learned how to fake everything — happiness, stability, friendship, health, even meaning and a sense of purpose itself was not spared. It became a simple process of elimination; forget all the things you enjoyed like dancing, acting, singing, playing an instrument; cold calculation was the only other thing I seemed to be good at. The discomfort became the delusion became the psychosis became the voyage.
A few near-firings, years of addiction, rehab, and decades of near-complete social isolation, and a few other things eventually shattered the illusory life I led, but that story is far from over and youth has already come and gone, and I still have no earthly idea who I am. Do you feel uncomfortable? Please, please learn from this experience and reach out. To me, to a trusted friend or supportive parent, to a counselor, to someone on this lovely site. Being uncomfortable is more than a response, more than a symptom. It is a warning. Acknowledge your truth, learn from it, do not let anyone tell you otherwise, and allow yourself to truly grow. I know you are brave, and you do not have to be uncomfortable anymore.
