I want to be liked all day, every day, by everyone and by anyone; because if I’m completely honest with you, and with myself, I’m a slut for validation. No, I’m not just talking about getting a couple of likes on an Instagram selfie; I’m talking about the kind of validation that feels even more satisfying than a little bit of narcissism. I’m talking about the validation that comes from baking cakes for my friends, wishing good morning to three strangers in a row, and saying yes to absolutely everyone. I’m talking about being nice, and doing nice things, and being the nicest person, because we all know how sucky the world is right now and wouldn’t it be so much nicer if we took the time to do something nice?
In a world as grim as the news makes it out to be, and in a time where so few people in charge seem to give an actual shit, doing nice things, for me, not only means taking a small amount of responsibility in these dire times to make a positive difference in someone else’s life – it also means I get to feel good, in an undeniably selfish way.
I do nice things because the instant gratification I get from doing them feels a lot like how my friends look when they take a bite of my baking (orgasmic, if you were wondering). It feels nice to be nice; and making a conscious effort to be nice has held me in good stead as far as having a reasonably likeable reputation goes. As stated per my introduction, I like to be liked; but what I’ve recently realised is that I go after these hits of nice-feelings like a rat in some scientist’s experiment box, constantly tapping at a button for any hint of a tasty treat that sounds a lot like: “yes, Meg, you’ve done the right thing.”
Some people use alcohol, others use drugs, I use saying sorry all the time and incessantly offering to do the dishes at someone else’s house party. Being nice is my addiction; and not only is the chase tiring, it’s also quite unhealthy, unnatural, and not necessarily kind at all. Sure, it’s definitely on the more socially acceptable end of “what people are allowed to be addicted to”; but when overdone, it can consume you, your health, and, without an iota of dramaticism, influence your identity and how you go about giving your life meaning.
That isn’t a cue for you to fill my inbox with “oh, but, Meg, you’re the most nicest person I know!"I mean, thanks, I guess, but that’s really not what I’m trying to get out of this.
What I’m getting at is that being nice (while fun and orgasmic) is my vice; and, like what I assume to be true of most people and their vices, my vice is exceptionally good at puttying up the holes in my self-esteem, weedling its way into my self-image, and planting itself so firmly in the middle of my psyche I have seemingly no choice but to say, “I am intrinsically a nice person. This is who I am. Me, a nice person, whether you like it or not (but please, seriously – like me).”
This of course becomes problematic when I do something I believe to be nice, and the response isn’t as validating as my fragile ego needs it to be. Or worse still, when I (like the human I am) do something that isn’t nice, and then proceed to drown in my own self-pity because I haven’t lived up to this ridiculously inaccurate belief of who I am or who I should be. To chase the highs I crave from doing nice things is ultimately centring my identity around a flimsy rewards system and setting myself up for failure and weak self-esteem; because, basically put, I’m not an intrinsically nice person. And nor is it possible for anybody to be nice all of the time (shock horror to the emotionally well-adapted of you out there).
We people are constantly changing in demeanour and manner, and to place all of one’s worth in a single characteristic is damaging, because you begin to tell yourself that to be anything but that one characteristic (nice) is undesirable and to some extent punishable. It’s like how in some toxic relationships you learn to only behave in one way with the other person; because you know, if you present any differently, they’re going to go off their tree and berate you for even breathing. It’s like that, but you’re doing these toxic things to yourself (you deserve so much better).
To make the whole self-reflection thing even trickier: I’ve realised I’ve been eating myself alive over something that isn’t even that meaningful. Being nice is lovely, sure, but in the scheme of things it’s only superficial; especially if we’re comparing it to things like kindness, love, trust and honesty. You know, the real things that matter. Delicious cakes are great, but honest intentions are even better; and I’d much rather root my identity in what it means to be true as opposed to how many brownie-points I can rack up amongst the people I know. To play on the cake theme just a little more: being nice is the behavioural equivalent of looking pretty. Again, so lovely, but at the end of the day it’s just the frosting on top of what should essentially be a really fucking good cake.
I want to be a really fucking good cake. The only difference between that cake and me is that my honest intentions aren’t always going to be delicious. Being trusting and kind, honest and loving aren’t necessarily going taste nice; in fact, I can tell you for a fact that they often taste like stale vegemite sandwiches. Saying no, having boundaries, being educated, having opinions, loving who you love, being yourself, and generally rubbing other people the wrong way are all examples of honesty, trust, love and kindness: I have difficulty with all of them. But I can only believe that living with these stronger intentions will be so much more rewarding than simply going after the superficial hits that come with complimenting strangers and saying sorry all the time; because I’d much rather live on the many strengths of my own character than the tidbits of validation that may be thrown at me from anybody else. Honesty, trust, love and kindness may not immediately sweeten this already sucky life; but they’re going to make for a damn substantial cake in the long run.
And, to be honest, none of this means I’m going to stop baking for my friends and giving my bus seat to old people (I’m a really good baker and old people tell me I’m delightful); it just means I’m choosing to work towards something better for those niceties to sit on. I’m still working out exactly how to do that, and I’ve been told I’ll be working it out for the next 60 or so years, but perhaps we could talk a little about it in my next blog post. Title: Meg Figures Out How to Not be a Shit Cake (but, like, I actually talk about how to be honest and stuff). Yeah, that sounds good to me.
Until February,
Meg x
Date: 14th January 2020
Credits:
My Housemate (who is getting really good at saying no)
Mark Manson (The Subtle Art of Not Giving a Fuck)
My Psych Lecturers at SCU (they’ve started teaching me about behaviourism, relationships and addiction)
My Psychologist (for, you know, all the psychotherapy)