The Four Stages of Contentment

Dear Jewel,

In my 10th grade English class we were assigned to write a memoir about our lives, and ourselves. Whilst this may come off as an easy task to most, for me it was one that was rather difficult. I didn't want to fully 'naked' myself and show my inner thoughts to my teacher, as I was still recovering from that mentality. But then again, I so badly wanted a good grade lmao.

It was definitely a tough process writing this, but I decided to push my boundaries and suck it up, and now I sit here laughing at the fact that I ever felt this way.

So here it is, my memoir on the 4 stages of Contentment. Please do not laugh, even if it comes off as funny.

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contentment

/kənˈtɛntm(ə)nt/

noun

a state of happiness and satisfaction

The Four Stages of Contentment

Uche Isabelle Udeh’s Personal Diary & Poem Book

Before you venture any further into the depths of this memoir, let me spare you the burden of reading this lengthy autobiography and spoil the ending: I do not achieve this value.

Dear: Disclaimer,

Unfortunately for me, I was brought into this cruel, unjust world bearing the ill-fated burden of overthinking. With that curse being placed upon me at birth, I’ve become prone to overthinking magnifying the most petite concepts, such as the term “self-image”. how does one even begin to explain the notion behind one’s self-image? That is a question regarding the topic of self-image causes me to stay awake into the dead of night. A more insightful question yet, how is one able to come to acceptance and awareness of their self-image? Is it through a canvas that was taken by a rusty, polaroid camera, or through one’s mental perception of themselves? It’s a physical aspect of a person’s lifespan, yet doubles as a mental issue as well. Would I be able to locate a link with one’s self-image, and how much satisfaction one endures? I am continuously marveled at the psychology behind this perplexing abstraction. Still and all, this little snippet of what goes on in my brain should just about summarize the life of an overthinker.

To even write this I had to overcome trials and tribulations of constant questions about what I had valued or aspired to value in life. The connection between ethics and me is another flabbergasting thing about my mind. I can’t seem to comprehend it, which leads me to a question two questions that take up my headspace I daily ponder, “why do I always seem to second guess myself? why do I rely on the assurance of others when I should rely on my own reassurance?”.

I often feel I am aware I have been made aware, I may never find the answer to the countless questions I have concerning myself, and it hurts that I have finally come to acceptance with that truth. I reckon it is due to the fact I lack a virtue popularly known as contentment, which I dub as “impossible”. I don’t know I was never There was never a rule book that dictates all the shortcuts to mastering life and its complexities handed out to me. Therefore, I was never gifted the key to unlocking the level of contentment. Some describe it reaching contentment to be some sort of heaven or nirvana, but it seems like more of a state of mind rather than a cosmological safe haven.

On the contrary, I do sense that with every year I grow in age, I start to feel nearer to achieving satisfaction with myself. Of course, I have had to experience the sadistic ordeals, and tribulations to reach that mountain peak in life. I enjoy referring to these torments as “the four stages of contentment”, making a play on words on the infamous “five stages of grief”. Unfortunately, for this journey, the first stage I had to encounter was none other than the fan-favorite, anxiety.

Stage 1

Dear: My Not-So-Little Friend, Anxiety

I’ve come across brought to light the fact that the world as we know it is not only home to a bunch of self-righteous, agitating human beings, but also houses numerous sinuous commodities. Such as the abstract idea, or could be simplistic depending on the perspective which you view it on, of traffic lights. Or the idea that we as homo sapiens, alias the same race who had disputes over inarticulate things like Yanny vs. Laurel, have the right to choose a world leader that will guide a nation for 4 years. Despite those two things phenomenons being subjects I would love to have hour-long discussions on, the most complex notion for me to grasp is anxiety.

Anxiety, along with insomnia, is one of my biggest tribulations I have ever encountered in my 15 years of living. An unnecessary amount of trepidation, distress, and coercion from outlets of different varieties, I grew inexplicably seeped its way into my existence, and now is part a part of my daily ritual. Due to these circumstances, I am scared petrified ceaselessly in a state of being scared stiff, not because of fictional monstrosities from fairy tales, but due to how being isolated equates to me thinking. And God, thinking might just be the most exhausting thing in the world.

That minuscule human who goes by the name Anxiety, that resides in your brain, might just be the most head-splitting being that anyone can encounter to congregate with in this life. This emotion antagonist never fails to remind me portrays the role of the puppeteer as it controls me, the puppet, never failing to act as the daily reminder of my past blunders. Day by day, the light inside me begins to dim due to this inapt sickness disorder which restrains me to only be able to express a limited number of my emotions. This little human devil in my head refuses to let me be and causes me to only ponder and credit pessimistic reasonings. Anxiety has succeeded in conditioning me to the point where I trust that half of the world is praying on my downfall, and it is so comedic to me how this is the only statement that I have never second-guessed.

I don’t know if I will ever grasp the idea of get a hold of my little friend Anxiety, but I do know it has a hold of me. It chokes back my words, and my spontaneous ideas, and just registers it as fatally stupid.

The handcuffs, or chains rather, leave a permanent scar on you mentally. These scars are messages to you, permitting you to know that you will never be free from the grasps of your mind. It spells out the words that you are unable to even come an inch closer to reaching satisfaction, without finding the key to unlock these chains. The chains for me represent 2 predominant things. Number one would be malicious past experiences, which I rather not discuss in too much detail, as it brings me to a depressive state of mind. These experiences however do have a relation with school, specifically, 8th-9th grade and my anxiety was well fed during that period of time. It survived off my emotions of how I felt at the time I encountered these experiences, and acted as a printer, continuously printing out an image of these moments in my mind whenever I attempted to think positive. I have very thin skin, therefore these experiences followed me as if they were shadows and led me to a very sorrowful time of self-depreciative comments. This is probably the chain that held me back the most and is the hardest to unchain. The second one would be me. There’s just something about me that holds me back. When I think of contentment, and regard people who are satisfied they differ from. Juxtaposing yourself to any other person who is not you, isn’t quite a wise action, but then again who said I was wise. People who are content look different and possess a non-identical mindset from mine. I regard myself in the mirror and observe my reflection. I deem myself to be unworthy of satisfaction. And the little man up there thrives off of this and doesn’t waste his time to let me know how right that statement was. Anxiety lets me know my thoughts are right, and that's what causes that specific chain to grow in strength and more burdensome to untie. Getting rid of it in this state of mind is the same as attempting to travel at the speed of light.

You know after a while of the constant belittling of yourself, you kind of reach your climax and tell yourself you want to be free of these handcuffs. To eradicate this illness, I attempted a journalling or poem tactic where I express myself through words, just to understand what causes me to feel this way. Words are beautiful by the way, they helped me to come to an understanding and are sort of what commenced my journey. Writing down my thoughts and emotions, permitted me to understand that my anxiety or reasons for not being satisfied with myself, was not question of judgment but rather who’s judgment. I let others' opinions, cloud my personal feelings and create this character who controlled me from the inside. I had to unlearn these malicious habits, and from unlearning these habits my chains began to feel looser. I trained myself to no longer commit these actions and slowly noticed that my chains were no more as much of toil as they were prior.

This is why I deem anxiety to be a mind-boggling concept. We, the victims of this deceitful being, are n’oit letting our bleak selves control us and prohibit us, instead of letting ourselves be free of these chains. This is a recurring sickness that can not be eradicated, no matter how much we convince ourselves. Despite the fact, I am thriving, I still at times get anxious thoughts on stressful nights. This mind-controlling virus with no cure, that feeds on our freedom, is one of the roots as to why we can not achieve contentment. However, if you loosen those chains you will be able to reach the next stage of this 4 step plan.

Chained

Weighed down by chains

The world slowly turns to grey

All my thoughts, continuously being compared to the size of grains

Every day is a constant replay

I’m a prisoner to myself

Slowly becoming my biggest nightmare

I’m a slave to myself

Why is my mind, my biggest fear?

Uche Udeh

Stage 2

Dear: Appearance

A little disclaimer: I don’t intend to sound like a spoilt brat while writing this section. I am very much aware of my privilege and do acknowledge it. However, is it a crime to want something more?

To be at a stage where you are gratified, you have to not only work on the mental aspect but the physical features as well. If I came here and wrote don’t down that I am unconcerned about others perception concerning me, I would be spewing fibs. In the midst of all the over pondering my brain performed, it led me to feel unpleased with my physical appearance and how I presented myself. It’s a rather shallow, immoral commodity to vocalize, but it is much easier to write it down.

I am still in awe of how my self-confidence in my attractiveness was rapidly demolished. To give a proper illustration of what I intend to say, ten beings could give me ten constructive remarks, and I’d assume they were fibbing to me and just saying it for the sake of being a good samaritan. Meanwhile, one bleak comment about my features could put me in a funk for the rest of the years to come. After a while, optimistic feedback no longer feels good for my spirit, but instead, human beings being deceptive.

Based on all the sappy movies that were forced on us as kids, the creator will always leave you with a message along the lines of “Beauty is in the eyes of the beholder”, assuming we live in a utopian society where everyone has morals. Having said that, the protagonists in these societies were always people who fit the beauty standard that was constructed by man. Take Princess Diaries, for example, the protagonist very much fits the beauty standards that were crafted by the patriarchy. The creators had failed to realize that the mindset of “pretty is a mentality” only works in favor of those who already were born with a pretty face. It’s similar to that of an able-bodied person, attempting to persuade a disabled person that “walking is a mentality”.

Now, it is not my intention to blame my lack of self-contentment or confidence on the poor writing of 2000 movies filled with numerous plot-holes, but I do blame this dearth of confidence on the ordeals I have come across.

The term “ugly” stuck to me like an adhesive in the eighth grade. It acted as a permanent tattoo, that you just couldn’t scrub off no matter how many times you attempted. I must admit it is ridiculous that I let others determine my physical appearance, but at the time I was not a proud possessor of a mind of my own. I depended on others’ validation to feel good about myself, and I acted as a sponge and soaked it all in.

At the time being, 12 years old me did not react so kindly to these depreciative comments. She had completely let the words take over her life and her own opinion of herself. To draw away attention from her body that lacked curves, she had adjusted her style to conceal her flat body that was compared to that of A4 Paper. She didn’t even fancy XXXL shirts, but for some reason, that was her closet space. At such a young age, these words were drilled into her mindset and properly convinced her face was not appealing to the eye. Imagine running away at the sight of a mirror due to the fact that you’re petrified by your own self, or redlining plans with your close buds due to being so insecure about how you look.

I often wonder what kind of half-wit, would permit a four-letter term to restrain them from reaching their full potential. It’s as if the oversized clothes I wore to hide away my insecurities, were a symbol of restraint. Being mentally held back from being content by the words that followed me every day. I shamefully walked through that hallway with loath for every inch of my body, every aspect of my persona, and almost everything, if not all, that concerned me. I was performing the act of bottling, and eventually, the bottle spilled and I began crying waterfalls to sleep every night.

Writing all this down, I look back at myself and just think about how simpleminded and senseless I was. I had given words, man-made intangible objects, power over me and they convinced me that I was my biggest nightmare. It’s as if they, as in the words, pointed a gun towards my head and shoved the negative thoughts about my physical appearance down my throat. These words became the most powerful entity I’ve come across, as the only ones I was able to think of were the destructive terms that left me in a state of despair. The Battle of Uche versus the Villanous Words was similar to that of David and Goliath, except David in this situation never won.

During all this self-destruction, my mind kept drifting off to how younger me would react if they were able to see me right now. Would they recognize me? Would they befriend me? Would they even like me? It physically wounds me to acknowledge how much I have drifted from my once positive self all due to the matter of whether you are socially deemed beautiful or not. Nonetheless, pubescent me was a better version of myself. I would take her over me any day, and that makes me so infuriated. She won’t be such a slow-minded individual to even question her attractiveness or let man-made terms turn her so blue.

This is why I stand behind the fact that the concept behind being content is so frustrating. Six-year-old me, someone who was unaware of what the word content even was, was satisfied unknowingly and had confidence in her face, and body. Why is it that a being with a brain so undeveloped is able to see her true beauty, better than I am? And why do I feel the need to find satisfaction with my looks, to be fulfilled with myself?

All this ranting, and yet I still haven’t talked about whether I have overcome this stage of the process. Sorry to disappoint you, but I fear I have not, and may never. To go in-depth, I fear my insecurities still have such a stronghold on me. Insecurities are derived from negative times that you desperately try hard to forget, yet they stick to you like glue. It infects you, like a virus, and spreads all over your brain, affecting your thinking process. Mind you, I had only begun this 4-step process about two months ago, so for me to spew a lie dictating “I have found the cure to this confidence dissolving virus” would be utterly ridiculous.

However, denying that I had any growth in this stage would be absurd as well. I still find joy in others validating comments, I am human of course I will, but I have learned to rely on my own validating comments.

To paint a picture, I had realized over the winter interval, that beauty truly is in the eyes of the beholder. I just had to more or so convince myself that there was a beauty that resided within in me, whether it be more external or internal. It led me to stop leaving myself such self-demeaning comments towards myself such as “your face is ugly” and instead “you look nice today”. Now, I am not saying this cured me of my facial dysmorphia, but it lifted my spirits and increased my levels of confidence.

This stage in summary was the most detrimental towards my mental health, even though it had to do with the physical features myself. Dealing with your hatred for your own appearance is a hateful experience. It is similar to one of those team-building exercises, such as the three-legged race. To paint a picture for you, the three-legged race is an activity based on agreement and confidence in one’s partner. You and your partner need to work together to achieve the goal and need to be in agreement. At first, there may appear to be some friction within the team. One partner may have a different strategy in mind, while another may not be the speediest. Eventually, the pair must figure out the root of the problem and locate a compromise that incorporates both ideas. Sure the pair may not win the first-place prize, but they will still eventually cross the finishing line together in unison. That analogy delineates how this appearance journey was for me. The debut was rough, however, once I figured out the issue I possessed, I was able to grow to appreciate my appearance more. Sure, I am going a bit slow but I am nearing the end of this race, even if I come in the last place.

Flowers and Lace

Flowers and lace

Is what they say they’re made of

The pretty girls with a pretty face

You know the girls who put the whole world to a stop

When they do nothing but just...talk

Their laugh is easy to trace

It always puts a smile on your face

Their hair is made of sugar and spice and everything nice

They enter the room with pride

But with every stride,

Why do they hide

Hide their emotions, their thoughts, their feelings

Are they worried it’s not appealing?

Or maybe I'm overthinking it

I guess it’s just hard to admit

That maybe, just maybe, they’re perfect

But what if I'm correct?

Maybe I’m going too in-depth

I know I’m wrong don’t waste your breath

But I can’t help but wonder

Moments like these put me in a place of sonder?

Puts me in a place of thought

A place of distraught

You know I ask “how do I become a girl made of flower and lace”

they look at you and laugh at your face

they just know, you will never be first place

you then proceed to ask so if I’m not pretty

What can I be?

What are some good qualities of me?

They tell you

“the only thing good about you is your brain”

but that’s not the same

it's not the same as

having boys fall with grace

every-time they gaze at your face

regardless of your race

they don’t understand

what it feels like to be made of sand

every-time you think you’ve got someone

they let you slip through their hands

Beauty is in the eyes of the beholder

Yes I am aware

but where is the beholder who sees my beauty

I can never compare,

To the girl with beautiful eyes

and an oxford winning smile

to the girl with beautiful hair

who can take control of you with just one glare

To the girl with natural fox eyes

As beautiful as the midnight sky

I wonder if when they look at their body do they cringe

are they taken aback, are they unhinged?

are they worried if their back profile is nice

are they worried if their side profile is nice

but you just know the highest struggle they’ve experienced is lice

they smell like fresh-picked honey

and they’re desired just like money

with the absolute best curls

and people ask how can you hate these girls?

you can’t.and that agitates me.

they’re all perfect, they’re everything you want to be.

you know I don’t know how many times I’m gonna say this

but I hate the girls made of flower and lace

as they make us compete for first place

Uche Udeh

Stage 3

If there is one thing I can praise myself on, is how I have mastered the art of bottling down to a t. I wish I never did though.

This artistry is all based on the belief that it is better to not showcase your emotions to the outside world, avoid vulnerability, and have your emotions being used as weapons against you later on in life. It also permits you to feel less like a burden to others by just shutting everyone you know out. As someone who has practiced this self-damaging sport for almost half their life, I can assure you it is damaging.

You’re physically and mentally isolated, as if you are on a remote island, disconnected from everybody. You so badly want to speak, but you are afraid of unloading some unnecessary cargo onto them that they may find stressful to deal with. I’d just hate to feel like the bearer of bad news, but at the same time I was aware that if I did not voice my true feelings about what was going on at the time I would never be free from the chains that hold me back.

I was in between crossroads, as I did not want to cause my loved ones to feel as if they were responsible for causing me to feel unloved, but I was tired of feeling so lonely and not being comfortable speaking to anyone.

This irrational fear derives from my past experiences with opening up. There was a time when I had decided to overshare and noticed everyone in the room had a sense of discomfort and I wanted to crawl in a hole and never come out, due to the embarrassment I had just faced.

Not only is the discomfort of people, a fear of mine concerning the topic of opening up, but so are my insecurities being weaponized against me. To put it in perspective, I despise when my timidities are transformed into some type of joke, but I am unable to speak out about it as I fear being referred to as sensitive. Due to these experiences, concealing myself was just the safer way out. Bottling, that is. Hiding from this cruel world, and just attempting to be your own counselor.

It’s a scary thing to do, opening up. You are not sure of the person’s reactions, or you may think “what if I am overreacting”, and you begin to second-guess yourself and invalidate your own personal feelings. It’s a hell cycle of you going back and forth with yourself, and then you eventually just never do it.

The thing about bottling though is that eventually the bottle becomes too full of intoxicated water, and it overflows. You just reach the climax of your internal suffering, so you blurt it all out. It’s quite ironic too because it’s the tiniest thing that can trigger this overflow.

To stop being a master at this art is a tricky thing to accomplish. Someone has to pry the bottle cap open for you to feel comfortable enough to do it. It is not a task that can be accomplished on one’s own, and you should only ever do it with the people you are most comfortable with while bearing the consequences of this in mind. Yes, you may have become more vulnerable, but now you have fewer negative thoughts living in your head rent-free.

A piece of advice I can leave is to not become so reliant on this artistry. Eventually, you will regret it.

28 Bottles on the Shelf

In my mind, I have bottles of thoughts on the shelf,

28 bottles which I have manufactured myself

All bearing memories which I tried to rid

All are negative, under their lids

The bottles on my shelf can never be touched

Because if they are, there is no saying I won’t say too much

They are a ticking time bomb, just waiting to explode

But still, I do not wish to unload

So that is the story of my 28 Bottles on my Shelf,

Which in turn, have damaged myself

Uche Udeh

The “Final” Stage

Dear: Satisfaction

The initial notion behind this memoir was to be able to vocalize the past experiences that have molded me to become the human being I am today while attaining a virtue I value. Whilst my goal was to achieve some sort of contentment, I had failed at that. The author of this memoir was an inadequate candidate to participate in this journey, as they hadn’t even reached their goal that they set out.

However, that does not mean I didn’t reach the end of my journey. I hadn’t accomplished the goal of gaining satisfaction, yet I received something better. Content within myself that I am a human being with numerous negatives to them.

Dictating that I had reached 100 percent contentment, would be a fib. I would’ve been lying to you, the reader, straight through my teeth whilst also lying to myself and stunting my growth as a person who still does not credit compliments from other people. There are numerous aspects of myself to be worked on, and it hit me that it is near implausible to be fully satisfied with oneself. To reach a stage of full contentment is the equivalent of not acknowledging one’s faults as well.

Although this end of my journey wasn’t the intentional end, it is the end that best suits me and the end that complements my current state of mind the most. As Che had said, there are many ways to culminate a journey, and this was mine.

SO to reword my original statement, or rather the spoiler, I did not reach my initial goal, but gained a sense of enlightenment.

Signing off,

Uche

Contentment [revised]

/kənˈtɛntm(ə)nt/

noun

a state of almost achieving happiness and satisfaction

Signing off,

uche. 🦋

Works Cited

Udeh, Uche Isabelle. Uche's Poem Book. 2017-2021.