Yes, I haven’t posted in a while. There have been lots of partially-formed ideas floating around my headspace, but nothing has been concrete enough to prompt a new post.
Or I’ve just been lazy.
Either way, it’s good to be back.
Our topic today is FOMO, or Faulty Onions Mean Odor.
Okay, in case you don’t know, that’s not what it stands for. Fear of Missing Out is what today’s post is about.
I first heard the term FOMO in the context of teenagers missing out on what their friends or peers were doing. An insatiable desire to be part of the action or bear witness to social shenanigans is a trademark of adolescence. It’s a time of acute awareness of social standing and seeking of external validation.
As my age continues to diverge further from adolescence, I’ve realized something: FOMO doesn’t go away when you become an adult.
Now, let’s get personal. I was home-schooled. As a result, I actually did miss out on a lot of things that the “normal” kids were subjected to. During high school in particular, this fact grieved me on a daily basis. I was a bit dramatic.
What’s funny is that a fair amount of the stuff I missed out on, I probably wouldn’t have enjoyed anyway. But that’s really not the point.
I remember feeling alienated when public schooled friends would talk about a particular teacher, assignment, class, etc., and I would have nothing to contribute, no means to engage. I could only imagine what real school was like, and that was mostly based on movies and TV—highly accurate, as always. My friends didn’t mean to exclude me. I just couldn’t help but feel like I was on the outside, looking in.
It wasn’t always that the things I perceived I was missing out on were strictly fun and exciting. This was my view in part, but I think what I missed more was the common experience—the good, bad, and ugly. I wanted to sink into despair when an essay was assigned over the holiday break and cheer with delight when school was cancelled, as long as my peers were having a similar experience.
Better to be miserable with others than unperturbed and lonely. I wanted to feel like I belonged. I wanted to be seen like an equal, not a dejected weirdo, even if it meant enduring some unpleasant circumstances.
Well, fast forward to today, and I’m still a weirdo. But I like it.
I can see now that many of the popular, cool activities my peers attend to are not my jam. And that’s okay. I married someone who also has had no desire to go to clubs, dine at fancy sushi restaurants, or go wine tasting. God bless her.
But there is something tragically destructive I’ve failed to outgrow.
As an outsider, I idealized many facets of public school and the lives of those on the inside. For all I knew, guys had girls sitting on their laps during class, had sex every weekend, and had to find time between make-out sessions to get homework done.
I secretly and passionately desired to live and breathe in the fantastical realm I concocted. Because that image went uncontested by the lack of counter evidence, my imagination ran wild. It would have done me good, I’m sure, to sit in on classes for a week. A hard dose of reality could have saved me from years of self-inflicted FOMO.
It’s embarrassing to admit the obscured yearning I had for unfettered access to girls. I wanted to be wanted. I wanted to be desired. I could imagine nothing better than having to fend off hordes of hormone-activated girls as my capacity to attend to them was repeatedly maxed.
Of course, this longing was (and is) in direct opposition to my faith, moral code, and wholesome lifestyle ideal. Regardless, it endured like a subterranean aquifer of septic putridity.
The foundation for sex addiction was laid early in my life. For this, that, and the other reason, I viewed sex as the most important thing. It was the one indisputable indicator of my worth. All other affirmations paled in comparison. Sex = love = self-worth.
Fortunately, I was better at math than logic.
Well, I lived by this fallacious, salacious code for a long time. As it was never true that sexual attention would satisfy my longing to belong, be chosen, or have value, my addiction festered and grew.
In the present day, I’ve eradicated the behaviors and many beliefs most associated with sex addiction. However, a desirous energy still lingers. I can subdue it for a time, but it repeatedly returns.
Little slips transpire. I might let slide some sexual humor, propinquity, or a hug from a woman. Eliciting a smile or laugh from women gives me a little zip of that old drug.
Okay, so I’ve been on this recovery journey for nearly 6 years now. Why are these tendencies still present?
I think part of it is FOMO. I decided long ago that I was missing out. I’d forever be in a deficit, doomed to play catch-up forever. Convinced of my retrospective popularity, I sought to claim my right to sexual attention latently. Essentially, I figured I would have received copious attention from girls during adolescence, so I am entitled to collect whenever I can. I’ve merely tried to make up for lost time by overindulging after the fact.
It’s making me feel a touch crazy to acknowledge all this, but denial is no better.
Well, it hasn’t worked. Even unlimited affection from other women couldn’t meet my deep-rooted desires.
What I ultimately desire and need is to be chosen for who I am. I want to belong to a whole. I want to have a seat at the table.
Soliciting sexually-charged attention from women is like micro-dosing an old drug—a drug I’ve fought hard to quit.
I don’t want to go back. It’s up to me to lean into a healthy community and allow myself to be seen and known. God wants to love me, and one way he can do that is through trustworthy people in my life. The content I’ve dredged up in this post is not intended to excuse any of my behavior or mindsets. It serves as insight to my legitimate needs and how I’ve tried to meet them in unhealthy ways so that I can pursue something better.
Nobody else determines my worth. By the grace of God, I am deemed worthy despite my failures as a man and a husband. Others can reinforce the unalterable truth that…
I am chosen.
I belong.
I have value.
In kind, I have nothing to prove, nothing to hide, and nothing to fear.
What to read next: Are You Good Enough? 4 Ways to Embody True Identity