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It’s Okay To Care About Views
There’s something special about the love we didn’t ask for.
Have you ever stopped and thought about guilty pleasures?
Take the words guilty pleasure. Why should we feel guilty about something that gives us pleasure? With the world as it is, I think we have enough to feel guilty about without adding pleasure to the list.
People make us feel guilty about loving something simply because they don’t. How many of us have been shamed for our hobbies and interests? What label was placed on you? Are you a nerd, a gamer, a weirdo, a bimbo, only defined by what can be seen?
In my case, I suppose I am a weirdo — mostly because I am a quiet person. I am a bit unusual. I don’t wear make-up, don’t dress to impress, don’t flirt my way into anywhere. I’m just me, which I believe is good enough. People love me or don’t get me. That’s okay by me.
Yet, because of this, the more I thought about it, the less I knew what my guilty pleasure was. There’s not much I’m ashamed of liking.
It took me a very long time to realize what I was afraid to admit I liked.
Love.
I know, that sounds cheesy when I say it that way. I don’t mean sex or romantic love. No, I’m talking about another kind of love.
Random love. From friends, family, strangers. The love that validates you, or compensates for the love you need. I’ve never wanted to accept that I, too, needed it. Appreciation, admiration, recognition. I hate to admit that it feels good to be seen.
I was a somewhat lonely child, I grew up to be an independent adult. I appreciate solitude. I make myself laugh, I enjoy spending time with my thoughts, and I don’t hate what I see in the mirror. It should be enough, shouldn’t it be? Solitude is not such a bad thing if you ask me. It shouldn’t be deemed negative. I have friends, I have a family, I’m not lonely.
I wanted to believe that I needed no one — it was easier than taking the risk to be rejected and hurt.
People don’t like my work? That’s fine. But it isn’t.
Friends don’t answer my texts? That’s fine. But it isn’t.
They had a party and I wasn’t invited? That’s fine. Did they go out together without me? Fine too.
Do they have a private chat? I’m sure they’re not making fun of me.
Denial is a sweet sweet poison that keeps you alive. Years after years, I was good on my own. Crowds make me insecure as if there was always at least one person making fun of me.
At the beginning of 2021, I started a literary blog with former colleagues. Soon, I realized it was going to be hard for me on a personal level. I was suddenly part of a team of busy people. Strangers on second, reading my deepest fear the next.
I got addicted to the nice notes saying well done, the comments on my stories praising good sentences. I wanted more of it. I wanted to be loved, deliberately. When nothing was coming my way I would be a mess, falling back into the old traps, wondering why people didn’t like me. I knew it wasn’t personal, yet I couldn’t help but hurt, thinking I could never be good enough.
Behind the scene, we count the views, the reads, every little number. How many people were intrigued and clicked on my story? When you share a piece of yourself and no one wants to read it, it’s hard not to take it personally. If someone had connected with it, they might have shared it with a friend. They would have left a comment. They would have clapped.
The silence hurts for everything it implies. It wasn’t good enough. I wasn’t good enough.
It took me time. Time to be a balanced adult that can accept a compliment, but doesn’t need it to feel good enough. Time to understand that self-love is vital, but shouldn’t be the only love you can rely on. I love myself, though I am far from perfect.
And it’s scary to publish that text. I believe it takes some courage to say that I care about the love you give.
My inner saboteur is screaming that I should be ashamed of myself. Am I not too old for this? Am I not loved enough already? Why should they care for me? Why should they care about my work? They’re not here to make me feel better about myself.
And just like that, I lose my nerve and courage. I doubt, once again. Should I be that honest, that open? What is the point, if there is no one to read it? I know, I do it for myself.
Well, yes and no. I write for myself, and for people to read. If a tree falls and no one hears it, did it fall? It’s the same here. Do my words exist if there is no one to read them? I write letters through a computer, you give it life.
As much as I’m learning to accept that I need to be recognized, I am also learning to accept that people might not like me, or my work. And it is okay. I’ll be okay. As it’s okay to want to be loved.
Maybe I share too much. Maybe I’m too honest, too vulnerable. Maybe those thoughts should stay in my head or be shared with friends only. Publishing this text on the internet is being blindfolded: I have no idea who might read it, and what they might think of me.
I decided that it didn’t matter. Opening up here is not about telling my secrets or my stories. It’s only words, you don’t know me. Opening up is me saying I appreciate you stopping by. Please, spend your time with me. If there is something that will always matter, it is the love you give.
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