Today I actually felt afraid of visiting the places I enjoy. Before, they brought me satisfaction after feeling so hopeless about feeling bored, but now I just get anxiety about walking inside.
I love going to record stores and book stores. I used to anyway.
Now, I just have that feeling in my chest and abdomen in which my cardiovascular system is a storm and my heart its victim.
This is mostly anxiety due to jealousy and fear. I always get worried about the most unimportant things, but the fears are truly frightening.
My father drove us to a far away city and took us to a bookstore. I felt uneasy about walking in because I was afraid I might see a person wearing the shirt of my favorite band and then break down in tears.
This has happened similarly. There was once a situation that included me seeing a sticker of my favorite band on a vehicle passing by. When I went home I threw myself on the bed and cried like hell.
My sister was scrolling through her Instagram weeks ago and I took a peek and saw a girl wearing the band shirt. I started crying right there and began to think of how I am inferior.
When these things happen, I feel so worthless, so awful, so idiotic, so unimportant. I form attachments to my obsessions to the point that is not healthy anymore.
Today, I almost asked my father to walk in the record store to look for the album I wanted so I wouldn’t have to be in there (sometimes I get paranoid and think the workers are fans). The thing is even though I have entire discography of my preferred band, I still look because of singles or other rare stuff. I just don’t want anyone to see me looking through their albums or start a conversation. Actually, when my sister bought me one album last month, I had to stand far away from the cashier in case he sparked a conversation about it. That’s a nightmare. That happened once, but in the days when I wasn’t such a jealous girl.
I cannot even be in big public places because I fear I might see a fan.
Now, going to bookstores or record shops isn’t fun anymore because the first thing I will do is check their section and feel anxiety that someone will buy the copy of one album. I remember once checking, then doing so again a week later, and discovering that it had disappeared. I didn’t even like that album so much, but I still felt mad that someone had taken it.
The obsession isn’t even fun anymore! I do like being obsessed, but not to the point that I’m always afraid I’m going to lose something. I can’t enjoy a video or a picture because I will start thinking someone else loves it more than me or has more passion or albums and better mental health. Even the band would like them better than me. Then again they don’t interact with fans at all.
I’m just afraid people are taking my obsession away from me when it is the thing that has kept me sort of stable in the past six years, even through the most depressive times. I try my hardest to be the most devoted of them all, but it isn’t enough. My brain tells me I am not good enough. People are still much better than me. Even the artist wouldn’t find me interesting.
Writing this, however, reminds me again and again that nothing really terrible is happening. Everything famous has fans. I can’t change that fact. They’re not going to steal anything from me. It still does anger me that people are listening to the songs I have memorized for life. The connection is much too profound. No one will love like I do.
Day and day I try to find a way for this jealousy to just leave; depart to its hateful lairs. Sometimes it seems impossible. Sometimes I consider giving up my obsession. That’s not fair, though.
In time, maybe it will get better. This is a matter of self-esteem. I am young and don’t like myself; a symptom of youth. I don’t expect myself to join a fan club in the future but just not caring or disliking so much would be a relief.
I can’t see anything related to that obsession in social media. I will probably suffer from a violent pang of jealousy and sob if I do.
I do admit I’m better than the fans. I wish I could believe that very sentence every living minute of my life.
It is my main source of stability and instability.
I still wonder how I survived in the last concert without shedding a tear. Knowing they barely give a care about their fans comforts me.
But it is not only this obsession diseased with the green monster. It has spread to my other obsessions, too.
I can’t listen to my other favorite bands on the web or read about them. Or read about people loving my favorite movies. One time I wanted to listen to a song and I had to cover half of the screen to not see how many views the video had. That happens often actually.
This is what mostly depresses me. Can’t listen to live songs. Or see concert footage.
My old therapist taught me a technique in which I imagined I am famous and I see my fans in a book signing. There is someone who looks quite bitter and unpleasant. It is my obsessed, jealous fan. What has he to be jealous of? I’m probably not going to date any of them. Nothing to get sad about. I am just glad they all enjoy my art.
But, I would be understanding. I am more jealous if I have a personal, deep connection to something. Being a fan hurts.
Every year this gets worse, but I still pray it dies and leaves a fossil of an old memory I can later laugh about.