Sherlock vs Marple

WOAH, I haven’t posted in ages. Okay wow, so time really does fly when you’re having fun except I’ve not really been having fun because real life is rarely fun it’s stress and expensive and nuts and weird. I guess I have had a lot of fun too. OKAY CHANGE OF PLAN. I was gonna write about the taboo of the therapist and how utterly ridiculous this is, but I will save that for next post (so stay tuned you judgy lot – that was only aimed at the judgy ones – the rest of you, I salute you). But, those first two sentences have inspired me to write something much more relevant: the art of overanalysing. Now, when I say art, I mean the kind as in the new modern art form where someone draws a blue line on a canvas and calls it art; THE ART THAT’S NOT ART. Maybe it’s minimalism, maybe I’m ignorant and MAYBE IM JUDGY, or maybe I’m just an incredible artist and can recreate the work of the Gods. Either way, overanalysing life isn’t an art it’s a fucking burden. Why couldn’t that skill be replaced with an awesome skill like being able to roll my belly, or be an olympian or some shit.

Okay so, firstly let’s define overanalysing. In my mind, overanalysing is when someone thinks about aspects of a situation such as the motives, reasons, possible outcomes to an irrational level, to the point where it effects their view/feelings towards the situation or their wellbeing (they worry so much they get jelly belly/jelly brain/massive feeling of not-ok-ness). It may mean different things to different people, but I’m sure we have all done it at some stage. Some more than others. To those of you who are constant overanalysers I feel your pain. I would say this is my worst trait. If I was writing a post about anxiety I would say that that was my worst trait. But I guess they’re sort of one in the same. Well, overanalysing gives you anxiety. Anyway, the worst thing about overanalysing is that it leads to you becoming a spectator of your own life. By this I mean you can no longer live in the moment, appreciate what’s really happening, because you are analysing it AS IT HAPPENS. It’s like Sherlock shit, like the minute someone says something your brain flashes all these red lights and makes a bleeping sound as it types out in your glasses lense (if you don’t wear glasses you’re a loser and should probably get some with plastic lenses to make you look more intelligent) all the stuff you’ve noticed: BEEP BEEP BEEP he looked at his phone 30 seconds before he said this so someone else must be in on it BEEP BEEP BEEP I just laughed but did I really find it funny or am I not actually happy BEEP BEEP BEEP I feel fine but I probably am not because I’m not usually BEEP BEEP BEEP maybe she’s annoyed at me cos her sentence only contained 12 syllables when usually it’s a minimum of fifteen BEEP BEEP BEEP are they actually tired or just using the tired excuse when really they’re pissed at me BEEP BEEP BEEEP BEEEEEEEEEEEEEP. It’s enough to drive someone crazy (lol I’m already there). That just reminded my of the Westlife song ‘Already there.’ Spent many-a teenage car journey staring out the window to that. I LOVE NICKY (if you don’t know who Nicky is you need to up your Westlife trivia). It’s incredible – check it.

AAAANNNNYYWAAAYYY, being a spectator of your own life is awful. You don’t even get the nachos and oversized drink that cost as much as your rent that you usually do when you’re a spectator a la cinema, for example. Instead, you just get a greasy bun thats been used to mop the back row spunky seats and a mouthful of stale jalapeños. Or something to the same affect. One of the worst things about spectating your own life is it is a very dfficult habit to break. Once you start being Sherlock, it is hard to resort back to being a regular Marple. Your powers have grown. You are invincible. How do you stop yourself from doing something that you don’t realise you’re doing until you’ve done it.(Go on, go back and re-read that till you get your head around it.) I have no answers because I am currently very deeply in this myself. But I will share with you my technique that I have found sometimes works and gets me in a good mindset. Said technique is titled … “Fuck it,” OOO look at Chloe coming up with the least-bait wannabe badass technique ever. AGAIN, this reminded me of some socks I saw today by a brand called concrete humanity (name drop – they should probably give me some free clothes now, although I’m not sure it’s typically my style, it’s a bit gangsta) that are plain white and just say ‘fuck off’ on the ankle, lol incredible, if anyone wants to buy me those I’ll give you a shoutout in my next blog and a tenner when I’m famous. No but seriously, I have decided to say to myself that no matter how many times I analyse a situation, it will turn out how it does. I will deal with it then and I will inevitably be okay. I’ve got myself through some rank shit, I’m sure I can handle most things. That’s not to say I’ll do it with the most grace, but you get yourself through it because you have to. And I don’t have the energy to keep this anxious overanalystic shit up. So fuck all these nuts thoughts swirling in my head, and fuck answering my critical spectator voice cos that can just get fucked, and I will live each day as it comes and deal with whatever happens when it does. This sounds like the MOST annoying, over played, overly-simplistic  technique ever but I actually find it works (sometimes). When I give myself a reminder of how life works, and that nothing is guaranteed, and that I’ve been a badass bitch before and I will do it again, that layer of giving too many fucks seems to slightly dissipate. You try it too, and let me know how you get on. Cos no doubt there will be hurdles and speed bumps and mountains along the way that some good old relateability (apparently that’s not a word? definitely is) helps with. Or, if you have another technique let me know! I’m dying over here people. Well, figuratively. Maybe not even that much. Maybe that was slightly dramatic. This is a safe place, my name is Chloe and I am an overanalysing spectator of my own life.

So there we have it, a bit of a soul baring sharing session. Please don’t rip me to shreds I feel vulnerable! What would make me really happy is you sharing my blog to anyone you think may benefit from reading the words of a fellow sufferer/major fucking hero, or to anyone who has a pair of eyes. And now I’ve told you I feel vulnerable you probably should do that. It’s the right thing to do. Share for share except I’ll share my soul and you share my blog. mmmm emotional black mail.

Lots of love,

xxxxxx

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