How My Environment Conforms Me—And Breaking From The Adversity Of Community
I’ve always felt the need to conform to a bigger entity, to feel a sense of purpose and belonging. Perhaps I was looking in the wrong place.
Mean Regression
They say you’re the average of the 5 people you spend most time with. Well… I haven’t hung out much... but I’ve spent time in different environments.
I echoed mannerisms and ways of speech when I played MOBAs as an early teenager. As it’s a competitive online game, much of what I developed then was unfortunately not very… courteous.
I subconsciously imitated mannerisms of speech in my voice. I’ve worked on improving my poor speaking skills through intonation and pacing. These notions came from what I absorbed around me.
The same occurred when I began writing on Medium. The word “productivity” was never in my lexicon. I never conceived the concept — I just did stuff the best I could.
Then I joined the platform, wrote, and read. Phrases like productive this and productive that, soon seeped into my words. What? I don’t talk like that… what the hell am I doing? Get that- *punt* get it out of here.
Environments like these molded me through the comfort of uniform familiarity.
And that’s when I was ensnared.
The C-Word
Environments usually come associated with a community. I’ve developed a… stark aversion to the word. A sense of repulsion and dread fills me anytime I see it.
My involuntary reactions don’t come without reason if there’s anything I’ve learned. As for what the cause is — I can only uncover that through introspection.
Perhaps I’ve experienced how monolithic notions of community are. Every person gets swept under this label— as if to act and think identically. Rather than becoming part of the community, the community becomes who one is.
One is suddenly a spokesperson for this collection of like-minded individuals. I’m now a representative, a diplomat. Everything associated with the environment reflects on me, and vice versa.
I’m part of it whether I like it or not. I lose my agency and become enveloped in the “photography community” blob the moment I snap that photo. I’m now an asset to the “developer community, ” I can’t just program for enjoyment.
If I refuse, I’m in denial or try too hard to separate from the group — an act of travesty. To not participate in this greater establishment is ridicule-worthy — what a fool.
It is simply what I am, and I should accept it.
My choice doesn’t matter in the bigger picture.
One of us, or none of you.
Perhaps I’ve found it strange how communities never seem to represent the average person. Not that there’s a single notion of what “normal” is, but I’ve associated them negatively with petty drama and gossip.
Power structures and clashes break out. A fight to become the dominant voice, to make one’s mark in… crocheting?
I’ve experienced and fallen to it. The most innocuous activities, or existence itself, transforms into a fraternity with judgment, gossip, and hazing.
I once was convinced it was my choice to fixate on the bad, and I wasn’t trying hard enough to see the good.
I carefully navigated YouTube in recent years, to stay in areas I could enjoy. Yet the sensationalism and drama — everything screaming for attention was unavoidable.
Months ago, I finally escaped my addictions. I go ages without visiting the site, if I do it’s by direct navigation for an exact video. I’m no longer part of those 2.7 billion users under the algorithm.
It was once surreal to think I’d abandon this integral entertainment platform I’d grown with for 12 years. It felt infallible.
As if I’d lose a part of me. Now it’s reality.
I explored the seven seas searching for the bounty, this paradise with peace and love. After seeing the plethora of shark bites, partly maimed myself — I had to question whether it was worth combing the waters anymore.
If the utopia exists in the sea but never emerges — can I say it’s part of my encounter? At what point do the trials and tribulations outweigh the rest, to the point where it’s an arduous search?
The term “community” is a collective with similar location or characteristics, going strictly by the dictionary. It’s a place of cultivation, togetherness, and utmost positivity. It’s where no one is ever alone.
But my notion of community is formed through experience. Not a book or a promise. And my experiences were anything but that.
I’ve tried to be convinced otherwise. But that neverending feeling of dread continued. I thought maybe I was crazy or hadn’t looked hard enough, but finding it was impossible.
To me, there is no good community.
Extremities defined my experience—deriving meaning from what had none. I was once sucked in — attempting to find greater significance through stupidly trivial matters. Everything was historical, a major offense, or a godlike triumph.
I relinquished agency to the greater movement in my mind. Everything was for the collective, so my actions weren’t my own. It was the greatest excuse of “not for me, but for we.” Yet my pursuits were meaningless and vapid in reality.
I’ve met people in shared environments. My online friends came from games, one helped me with missions. I once entered a major, one-chance event with a team of strangers from matchmaking — and we won the competition. These were memorable moments.
But I never engage meaningfully with the quirks or numbers community touts. The inherent filtering into extremities occurs at scale, and the promise goes unfulfilled.
I know no good “community,” despite my positive encounters.
Genuine bonds with the few I met defined those, not surface-level assumptions of greater connectivity. It could’ve happened anywhere, but by chance, it was there.
It’s with those few direct connections I felt belonging, not as a speck in the mass.
Being Despite Seeing
I’m largely done with doomscrolling, but I had a problem in the past. Negative perceptions of the world inundated me. I was devoid of hope and feared everything.
Perhaps I was aware my perception was warped. My next search was, “Is the internet really like real life?”
The answer? Of course, it is.
The ideas, events, and occurences are just like reality — and it’s naive to think otherwise. How quaint, and how silly.
My worst fear was this — that everything I read was true. The horrific events were inevitable. My insecurities were real. It’s a dark, grim place. That’s how the world was.
Then I realized the inherent selection biases. These are answers from those already on the internet, who likely use it often, and felt compelled enough to answer publicly.
Despite my past critical mental state, I’ve felt lighter sides of life in the last few months. It’s not over, but I’m slowly clawing out from the greatest chasm I’ve ever fallen into.
I’ve experienced for myself. My world’s damaged but by no means untraversable. Not every second is agonizing hell, nor is every person out to get me. Those descriptions weren’t true.
It feels screwed, but there’s a way forward.
Notions I absorbed often prepared me for false scenarios. Rarely did the hypotheticals become true. I followed guides to act detached from reality, playing a facade, forgoing genuity, and assuming the truth was one way — making a fool of myself.
I was convinced because I internalized an idea in particular:
"If everyone’s saying you’re wrong, you’re probably wrong.”
This is a mantra of humility in theory. Open-mindedness is surely good, I don’t have the answers to everything. I didn’t want to remain ignorant, I wanted to join the right side.
It was an insidious influence on my beliefs in practice.
I gave the thought an inch, and it went to Pluto.
Any inquisitive nature was culled. It just became — “You are wrong. You will always be wrong, and are delusional for thinking you know anything.”
I spiraled downward with each day. I questioned everything about my life. Perhaps I was clueless about the world and my experiences were worthless. Maybe I was hopeless and should listen.
The only avenue I was open to was adherence.
I sometimes felt horrible when supposed errors in my beliefs were outlined. Following what was “right” felt anything but that, yet the fear of affiliating with the “wrong” side forced me to.
My thoughts weren’t always bright, but I discovered some feelings weren’t without reason. That was supported when more voiced their dissent against the notions I once felt uneasy with but I was too malleable to refute.
My environment and everything surrounding me starkly disagreed.
I was young and unknowledgable, what did my feelings matter?
I’ve realized a flaw in my perception. I have limited mental bandwidth. I can’t process on the scale of millions — I can only observe my direct surroundings.
There’s an anti-law of large numbers affecting my mind — where any sizable sample size can convince me it represents the whole distribution, i.e. “everyone.”
Two opinions might as well represent the whole if they’re the only two I encounter. I feel outweighed as a result. To make matters more complex, those few are weighted by negativity bias.
The few of “everyone” can dwarf hundreds’ influence, because I perceive those hundreds as the minority. Add my biases into play, and the distortion becomes as inescapable as a black hole.
The environment I find myself in and my beliefs about it affect how I perceive everything. But I can’t see my surroundings’ attributes — whether the lens I peer through is warped.
That’s the tricky part.
Concurrence isn’t a good basis for my values anyway. It only serves as false reassurance. It’s comfort in believing my morals are right, supported by approval from the apparent status quo.
That judgment isn’t as indicative as I thought. I realize mistakes I’ve made in hindsight, yet my environments validated them. Everyday habits from years ago now seem egregious.
I’ve found my contradictory notions had reasons, though I was convinced they were thoughtless ignorance. Simultaneously, what I now see as my most detrimental beliefs were applauded. Not universally, but enough so to where the numbers took effect, and I thought I was right when I wasn’t.
To seek the common path of normalcy feels impossible. To adhere feels grossly discomforting, but so does deviation. Where can I find the truth? How can I ensure I’m doing right?
Perhaps the answer is, I can’t. And shouldn’t.
Following the road most taken guarantees nothing, if history is any indication.
At what point can I refuse the cookie-cutter assumptions provided to my life — ones that simply haven’t worked? To what extent must I endure tribulation and deny what’s in front of me, just to concur with the so-called normal?
When do my feelings gain validity, despite my environment claiming otherwise? And if I truly suffer from a unique affliction, must I simply accept it and decay alone?
I don’t exist in a vacuum. I know that’s not the case. It’s absurd I was convinced otherwise. In a world of 8 billion, I can’t experience life alone. That is the lie I’ve been told.
There’s 17,000 murderers in the U.S. in any given year, but not 1 person who feels the same I do?
The time for groveling and conceding has passed. It’s time I become honest with myself and admit — everything is not alright, and it’s not because of inherent deficiency or weakness.
My world is not alright, where psychological manipulation through sensationalism runs rampant. Where lies create a false facade of reality, to the recipients’ detriment. When no matter what I do, my experiences are invalid, and feel worthless.
It’s not alright when technology fosters transactional worth, where one’s so-called value is extracted and discarded on a whim. Where the landscape is devoid of genuine connection, and one never trusts the intent of what they see.
Not when the future is kept perpetually out of reach. When I’m driven so close to the edge, I harm and contemplate killing myself. Once is one time too many.
If to resist that is considered insolence and rocking the boat of my environment, there’s nothing more to say.
I’ll never know what normalcy is, but it doesn’t matter. I see the obstacles I face and know what I feel. My beliefs exist in reality with reason. I seek the best outcome, even if I inevitably make mistakes again.
My thoughts are mine. Not as a voice of community, not a dissenter nor advocate, but a reflection of my true experiences. My conscience defines them—and they desire nothing but common well-being.
The notion of community never brought me comfort, despite my prolonged loneliness. It was touted as a place of belonging, but I only felt isolation and aversion amongst the tropes and labels.
But perhaps by detaching from community, I can feel more connected than ever.
I feel a genuine connection when I write to those I’ve met. The unity comes from who we truly are, rather than our obligation to the greater environment.
It’s a resonance based not on structures, but on personality. It’s free of abstraction of the self, and a refocus on what comprises a unique individual.
Contrary to everything I’ve said, I do believe in greater connection. I feel this great energy partaking in something bigger when I go to a parade or ball game with thousands of others. Even if I am a speck in the mass, it feels significant.
I believe in harmony through community, but I don’t think anything called a “community” is so in reality—when it’s forcefully constructed, rather than experienced naturally.
Never Ever
My words have become very assertive recently. I’ve cut down filler words and qualifiers like “maybe” and “to me.” I’ve switched to active voice. I guess my passion for my ideas has reached another level.
Now that I’m no longer incapacitated, a fire has lit within me realizing the damage “normal” notions caused. I use stronger phrases like… well… “damage.” I write on topics I felt were too bold before… like this one.
While the prose feels easier to read through directness, my words become polarized. I don’t want to draw too many parallels to rebellion and revolution — “we’re not gonna take it,” something about the proletariat and free will.
I introspect not to dread my circumstances and fuel them, but to find contentness despite them.
I want to reflect again on my purpose in writing, to tone down the flames I may convey. I don’t wage war against societal beliefs that harmed me, I passively resist by trusting my own.
I write as a cathartic release of thought, and to move forward. I hope the words resonate, though it’s not my main goal.
I don’t want my thoughts to become a “voice” for a greater purpose — that’s where the spiral begins. And I certainly don’t seek to build a community — I hope nothing I do ever becomes one.
This is merely one step forward in connecting the dots, and discovering what’s right for me.