“Inception Guy” helped me put something about myself into words: I’m basically a secure person, with an intact sense of self / ego / safety. I believe that I will always be fine, that everything will end up for the best, and that most days can have more fun and joy than pain and sorrow, if you choose to enjoy available pleasures.
But in any given situation, I can become concerned that I’m not doing everything perfectly, which can trigger situational insecurities.
I’m accustomed to doing things well when I put my mind to it. I only made one C on any report card ever during my academic career, and it was in “Conduct” in first grade. Because I talked too much (shocker, I know).
My only report card B was in Theater in high school because I calculated that it wouldn’t ruin my semester average, which is all colleges saw anyway. So I skipped a huge assignment – the benefit of keeping the straight-A streak wasn’t worth the cost of missing that much sleep that week. Apparently I also jumped on the bed a lot as a toddler, fully expecting it would get me a time out, because, as I explained to my mother, the fun was worth the time out.
Sorry, I got sidetracked on my ability to run my life according to personal cost-benefit analyses, which is not the point. The point is that I want to do well at everything I do. I really want to. If I’m giving it my all, I crave to have someone notice and tell me I’m doing well.
My Inner Feminist absolutely positively fucking HATES it that I crave sexual affirmation from men. I should be self-confident, self-assured (and in the big picture, I am), and not need reassurance (and in the big picture, I don’t). And yet, I hunger for it.
If I’m working hard on a phone sex call to please a partner, it makes me irrationally giddy to hear that I’m doing well, that he’s pleased, that he feels good, or that I’m a “good girl” (I’m in Texas – people who know I’m 39 affectionately call me “girl” all the time – that phrase has no creepy age-play connotation for me).
So if you want to crawl into my primal happy spaces, set up a scenario where I have to “prove myself” and then reassure me that I did well.
Inner Feminist: This is horrible, stupid, degrading thing to tell people.
Inner Slut: Hush, bitch. It’s sexy as hell!
Inner Feminist: Editor! Please tell me you’re not going to click “Publish Post”!
Inner Editor: Fem, we all agreed that Slut gets to drive this blog. Are you… pouting?
Inner Feminist: Shut up, shut up, shut up! I can’t hear you! La la la la….
Just another day with my noisy, conflicted inner dialogue