Saturday, October 31, 2009

e-GAD, this is nothing new

One of the most accessible aspects of GAD, and probably my most pronounced manifestation of GAD-like psychological symptoms, is the predeliction toward extremely harsh self-criticism. In my experience, this self-criticism originally manifested itself as an inner voice expressing ceaseless doubt, perpetually questioning my choices or warning against impending failure. As a ten or elevent years old, I had no concept that this doubt was something other than who and what I was. In many ways, that realization did not occur until very recently, and still a perception that failure is ultimately the only possible outcome remains the cornerstone of my thinking. The primary difference now, as opposed to then, is that conscious awareness can at least attempt to actively counterpoint the assumption that failure is inevitable. In my youth, there was no cognitive third party intervening, there was the questioning, the doubt, and only acquiescence to its influence.

So it is probably no surprise that a majority of the goals set and endeavors undertaken at the time resulted in failure, when they were followed through to a result at all. Looking back across the windswept dunes that have consumed my memory, it seems to me that this pattern of self-doubt and manifest failure began around the time I was leaving elementary school. I can remember an incident around that time which serves as a reasonbly good example of the timber and tone my mind was taking at that age.

As a child, I was in love with drawing and drew or doodled compulsively. Literally, every piece of paper I came into contact with would be subjected to some doodle, shape, or object, if a means of making marks happened to be available. Subsequently, I had developed some rudimentary skill in the black art of picture making, by the time I was of middle school age. The particular episode that comes to mind was typical of the time: I am drawing when I should have been working on class work, and a small circle of my classmates had gathered around to watch. I suppose drawing was for me a means of gaining attention, as I learned very early that people enjoy watching the creative process in real time.

On one hand, I enjoyed being watched, it was generally positive attention, which was a sliver of light in the darkness to a pre-teen who felt completely alienated from his peers. On the other hand, I was always paranoid of making an error, or having to revise a drawing while people were looking on. However, it was not the watching that created a real issue, it was the compliments. The voice of doubt would not tolerate compliments, so it was paramount that each be actively deflected and, if at all possible, subtly discouraged. In this particular case, one of the huddled group extended a few kind words, something along the lines of "That's cool" or "I wish I could draw like that". In my mind, such commentary was patronizing at best, because what I was seeing was neither cool, nor something worth aspiring to. My eyes saw the flaws in proportion, the pose, composition, or shading. Every drawing was a failure of the vision I had in my mind, and part of my job as an aspiring artist was to remain acutely aware of these failures as a means of validating the voice of doubt and thereby furthering my dysfunctional relationship with art.

That said, the aforementioned complments had to be met with an impromptu dissertation detailing the shortcomings of the drawing at hand. I also felt compelled to inform the gathering that, in order to see what a real drawing should look like, they would have to check out my friend Chris' work. Chris was a buddy from the neighborhood, a friend none of the gathered circle would have known or met, because he was a couple of years older and had already started high school. Chris and I would sometimes hangout and draw together, working on the occasional Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles fan comic (the Eastman and Laird turtles, not the fruity, "Cowabunga dude" nonsense put out by Archie Comics).

Mostly we skated around the neighborhood and played football. He could draw reasonably well, but for him it was more of a pastime, so he did not take it very seriously. Was he better than me in a technical sense? Even at the time, probably not, and it is highly likely that I was aware of this, but in that moment, it was more important that everyone present be aware I was in fact not very good at this drawing thing and that they should reserve their kind words for someone more deserving.

And my relationship with art and life only grew more virulent from there.

Posted by Erik @ 10/31/2009 02:48:00 AM