Too much and not enough

How is it possible that one could feel like too much and too little all at once?

I make too many jokes. Have too many opinions. My face behaves like it’s in a silent film—every micro-thought gets its own exaggerated close-up. My lips, so obscenely full I constantly get accused of lip filler by strangers on the Internet. But, no, I was just stung by a bee once. My words, too elaborate in their phrasing. I’m too brainy and analytical. I take IQ tests for fun.

I think too much. Notice too much. And feel too much. When I’m at a party, I feel like a firework someone accidentally lit indoors. I can’t stop myself. And I sense that everyone’s merely politely humoring me, but deep down I worry that they’d rather just see me drift to the edge of the room, and let them be.

I try to reign myself in, but instead of shrinking, I somehow… inflate. Then—pop—and suddenly I find myself in a full-blown existential crisis from a Dostoevsky novel, trying to reconcile the futility of life with the absurdity of hope.

Too much.

And still, somehow, I’m not enough.

I don’t remember many historical facts or dates. I can’t list which policies passed when. I struggle to remember things. I dumb down my ideas until they sound embarrassingly basic. And, perhaps, they are? Goldfish love them. Sometimes, I pretend to know words and concepts I’m not actually so sure about, just to fit in. Somehow, I get away with it. I hide the fact that English is technically my third language, but occasionally I give myself away—like the many years when I pronounced the red fish “SaLmon” instead of “samon.” I’d pretend it was some obscure regional dialect. Being a Canadian amongst Americans has its privileges.

I don’t speak with certainty or confidence. I change my mind too quickly under good counter-arguments. I second-guess. I lack presence. Gravitas. I even feel weird saying the word ‘gravitas.’ I feel like a fraud, like a racoon who accidentally got dressed in a cute little tux, and walked into an art museum. And now people mistake him for the artwork.

Everything I’ve achieved feels like a fluke, like I only got it because I’ve bothered and most people don’t. Like I’m getting away with being so little.

Too little.

These are the dualities I battle within my mind every day—fencing with each other for the top spot, even though there’s no prize.

Too loud, too quiet. Too visible, too forgettable.
Always teetering between taking up too much space and vanishing entirely.

I contain multitudes and all of them could use a xanax or two. Or a bottle.

Should I say less? Or say nothing, and merely nod like a wise and approving safe? Should I speak in riddles? Will people like me more if I do?

Should I join a cult? Or start one?

Should I look interested? But of course I can’t look too interested. People like cool detachment. But not so much that I’m aloof. I still have to be warm, authentic, funny, and human. Which is a challenge when I’m also supposed to be mysterious, stoic, and elusive.

I don’t tend to share a lot of personal things. And people tend to not like that, it makes them feel disconnected. But what they really want is for you to share just enough trauma to make you feel vulnerable, but not so much that they are uncomfortable. The sweet spot? Someone else.

But I’m not just some glitch in the matrix. Maybe I’m not too much, or too little. Maybe I’m just…a person. Maybe these contradictions—too much, too little—are just the messy edges of being human. And I’m learning to sit with them, to let the fireworks and the doubts coexist. Not every thought needs a spotlight, and not every flaw needs hiding. Perhaps the trick isn’t to shrink or inflate, but to just be me—a person who emotionally identifies as a curious eyepatch-wearing raccoon.

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