Blood makes up 7% of the body. The typical individual includes about 8 pints of blood, made up of 55% plasma, between 200,000 and 500,000 platelets, between 4000 and 11,000 leukocytes (white blood cells), and up to 11 million erythrocytes (red blood cells). The most important function for red blood cells, would be to take hemoglobin through the body and disperse oxygen to our cells and tissue. Based on Mayo Clinic, any amount of oxygen in the blood below 90% warrants immediate medical attention. !
When I was little and I’d cut my fingers or bite a hangnail off overly harshly, I’d always suck the blood out. Retrospectively kind of gross, but I was always sure I could sense the oxygen coming out of whatever wound I was nursing. !
I was positive that I really could taste it. That I really could sense those small, tiny, minute air bubbles pulsating out of my body and tickling the tip of my tongue. !
I was positive I was the sole one who understood this secret. This somehow, illusive invisible atmosphere supply was simply understood by me. That this discovery, this sense, was additional proof that I was somehow more evolved, more advanced, more intuitive, more perceptive than my buddies who immediately went running for bandaids after every paper reduction or finger prick in the nurse’s office. !
I was favorable, that I was magic.
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I’ve constantly needed to be amazing.
Growing up simply saying, “I live near farms with horses!” wasn’t enough so it morphed into I reside near a place where horses CAN IN FACT fly when I’d brag to the other children at my school. When I’d read stories about coming across enchanting properties or portal sites in surprising areas, I’d hunt the woods in my personal backyard essentially praying that one of those would open up in a tree or behind a lots of sticks only for me. Sure, I really could retell the story of Narnia, but internally I urgently needed my personal variation.
Having a crazy imagination coupled with a serious anxiety about mediocrity (but clearly not having the vocabulary to describe what that was because I was a kid) only made my greatest aim to be the “greatest.” The most talked about. The most enviable. The most special.
It was a quest of being amazing.
In grade school it wasn’t enough to read narratives of the long, lost Russian duchess Anastasia, so I’d convince my buddies that I was likely associated with her. In middle school it was me steadfastly considering that playing “cat scrapes” or “light as a feather” wasn’t simply an outcome of an excessive amount of sugar as well as too little sleep and preteen giddiness that made magic; it was me because I was an real witch. !
And in high school and beyond? It only meant I was stupidly, blindly competitive. !
& #8212;
The Type A and Type B personality theory describes to the notion that individuals may be broken into two distinct style “kinds”. Type B being more relaxed, more passive, and much more easygoing; while Type A is more challenging, challenging, and competitive. Studies done in the 1950s by cardiologists Meyer Friedman and Ray Rosenman demonstrated that people with Type A personalities were double as likely to have problems with elevated rates of anxiety, magnesium want, and cardiovascular issues. !
When I was in school and dating a man who smoked weed daily and never rose above a 5 on the distressed scale, I discussed a big game about the relevance of R&R. Doing nothing all day was wonderful, sitting on the sofa binge seeing TV hand in hand was definitely my scene. I was the definition of chill, so simple breezy I could’ve been the poster child for Covergirl. Relaxed? Hi, nice to meet you. That was so me. !
Meanwhile I was taking two courses above our University’s maximum permitted credits, working full time as an assistant supervisor of a local company, performing in shows nearly every night, and living by myself totally out of my own pocket. All while preserving the delusion that I was the trendy, comfortable, chill girlfriend who slept 8 hours a night and never needed to fight or got nervous about where he was when he’d disappear. !
Sure. I was totally Type B.
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I’ve constantly cared about winning, even when I ‘d never have confessed that out loud.
It’s why in elementary school once I was too little to deal with a basketball in gym class so the teacher elected to throw me a volleyball rather, I rejected it and faked like I simply didn’t would like to play. Perception is a strong thing, and even 8-year old me realized that it was better to seem like I didn’t attention rather than confess I was unable of something. Even then I understood: it’s better to seem like you were in charge of the scenario rather than acknowledge that you’ve lost.
When I was deep in the center of my theater profession, you never would’ve understood when I was disappointed. I shouted around parts and criticism entirely behind closed doors and simply to folks who I knew would keep my shame a secret. Inside my head, part of being a true victor was (and is) keeping the outside of one — even if internally you believe like you’re completely nothing. So when I lost out on a job that I’d needed since I was old enough to work a walkman, I grinned. I brought the girl who got it blooms on opening night. I congratulated her infinitely using words like “lovely” and “mesmerizing” and “excellent.” She might have had the huge solo as well as the starring character, but it was great because look how great I was doing despite not getting to sing those 4 minutes and 11 seconds in the limelight. Internally I felt utterly broken and like all my work was for nothing and I’d been totally smacked in the face by loss, but on the exterior I was rising above. !
I’ve joked about it, but to me one of the best things you may perhaps say to me is some variant of, “You’re correct,” or, “You win.” Even when I know for a fact I’m right, and I’m in some way or another “triumphing”, I’m constantly pursuing the affirmation from someplace else. The blue ribbon that says, “You did it.” The basketball that no one believed I really could manage. The part that I understand I deserve.
Perhaps I’ve consistently been pursuing something unachievable.
Perhaps self-success is never going to feel worth it if it’s not coupled with the golden star from somebody else. !
& #8212;
hypocrite
noun hyp·o·crite ˈhi-pə-ˌkrit
1: a man who puts on a false appearance of virtue or religion
2: a man who acts in contradiction to her or his stated ideas or feelings
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Calling someone hypocritical is a favourite insult of millennials. It’s a gotcha moment. An “I see you.” It’s a verbalized tearing down of whatever veil so and so has carefully concocted and snarkily reminding them that they’re, actually, just as human as they’ve attempted to fake they’re not.
However, the matter no one cares to acknowledge when they’re tossing out “hypocritical” and “contracting” onto anyone passing by? !
It’s that we all are.
And we’re all just praying that nobody sees.
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I’ve constantly needed to be amazing. Magic, special, excellent, exceptional. Anything above average. That’s what I desired to be.
Whether it was being convinced that I’d figured out every one of the keys of the way the body really functions, was living a life more fantastical than anyone else, or was miles ahead of the remaining runners on the metaphorical path – that’s what where I desired to be. That’s who I needed to be.
So I danced the most difficult, belted the greatest, and lied my way to the proverbial top. If being remarkable was the greatest aim I wouldn’t stop until I was breathless.
Except…even in my quest of the greatest aim I was concealing my heaviest, darkest, most moving anxiety.
And that’s that finally, I’m only a man.
And I loathe admitting that more than you can maybe picture.
Because there’s nothing magic about humanity. Nothing special about settling for typical. Nothing magnificent about being like everyone else.
The stark reality is, we’re all likely on the same playing field.
And we’re all additionally faking like we’ve got ourselves wholly collectively while concurrently behaving like we’re the reverse of who we really are.
And truthfully? That breaks my heart.
—
I’m staring at my computer screen for six hours. I sip another glass of red wine while breaking my knuckles in a very boss-butt-bitch manner. I’ve diverted myself with narratives of buddy’s ex, to pups, to only word vomit from concluding an essay (this essay) about how I’m a walking contradiction for actually an day.
There are arguably 8 pints of blood in the body, and I’d voluntarily shed an excellent number of my own if it meant being able to be totally comfortable with who I ‘m day to day. !
The Type A and Type B personality theory divides us upward based on who’s more prone to freak the hell out versus keep their cool under sudden pressure, and I’d give up a great deal in order to not care about how you’re going to talk about me behind my back after I go home in the ending of the evening. !
Because while I recognize my very own competitiveness? My own desire for outstanding on a random Sunday night? In addition , I recognize its rarity. I understand how fleeting it’s. I understand how unobtainable it’s.
I understand how I may never have the ability to really find it.
Blood makes up 7% of the body. The typical individual includes about 8 pints of blood, made up of 55% plasma, between 200,000 and 500,000 platelets, between 4000 and 11,000 leukocytes (white blood cells), and up to 11 million erythrocytes (red blood cells). The most important function for red blood cells, would be to take hemoglobin through the body and disperse oxygen to our cells and tissue. Based on Mayo Clinic, any amount of oxygen in the blood below 90% warrants immediate medical attention. !
I ripped off another bit of my pinkie cuticle today. The blood oozed and rippled down my finger. !
And I automatically place it into my mouth, and sucked until I felt the familiar sense of an illusive small air bubble on the outer edges of my tongue.
Perhaps I’m never really going to be amazing, or magic, or anything.
But I’ll tell you what. I’m never going to quit striving. 
