One of my great hobbies is to write out personal essays. Another is to write fiction. I wrote the following essay a couple of months ago by combining the two. It’s very much a dramatized version of what I have gone through as a teenager but completely the truth.

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I love praise.

I’m intoxicated with it.

It’s the top reason why I worked so hard through school. From a very early age I grew addicted to that warm fuzzy feeling that I felt when receiving an affectionate pat on the head or an appreciative smile. A compliment was a high I lived for; all the more a thirst that became more difficult to quench as I grew older.

I had always done well in school, driven by my longing for praise. But I strived for more than that: I had to be praised for anything and everything that I did, academic or not, lest I go into withdrawal. Thus, I began unknowingly to live for others, casting aside any thoughts and opinions that may clash with their own. I became a people-pleaser, selling myself for the love of others.

I thought nothing of my mentality: I was always the good girl, I hardly got into trouble – what harm was I doing anyone? There was nothing wrong with being hooked on praise. It merely made me into a better person.

I was in denial. It wasn’t until far into my adolescence that I truly felt the side effects of my addiction.

Mood swings. Bouts of depression. One absent-minded statement by someone could send my head reeling for the rest of the day, trying to figure out why and what I did to make them say such a thing. I closed myself off from everyone else, keeping up a facade of a smile in order to maintain my lifestyle, bottling up any conflicting feelings inside. I became overly self-conscious, obsessed with what people thought of me – afraid of what they could say. Overt jealousy took over me for those I admired, leaving me wondering in vain why I could not be like them. I was, in short, a mess. But I kept to myself, unwilling to cry for help to even my loved ones lest they thought less of me. I would often cry myself to sleep.

No one held a confrontation for me. It was I who saved myself when I looked in the mirror one morning and realized what I had become. I realized in horror that by feeding my addiction I had lost sight of myself. I didn’t know who I was and I feared who I would become if this went on. I broke down.

I finally took up the courage and called up a friend, pleading for her help. I was in mental rehab for many months.

It’s been over a year since my severe breakdown. I won’t lie, I have had times where I’ve cried for hours since then, but I always stand up stronger than I was before. I’m getting better.

Praise is not something I can avoid for the rest of my life. But I’ve learned that my own thoughts, concerns, and beliefs are more valuable than the opinions of others. I’m slowly teaching myself to put myself first in every aspect of my life and to embrace who I am – who I’m building myself to be.

But it’s difficult to throw away a lifestyle I’ve lived with for nearly eighteen years. I find that the consequences of my past addiction often creep back through me and I start to worry like I used to. I question the thoughts of my dearest friends and become disgusted with myself for even thinking such things. The old me believes that they’d think me an inconsiderate friend while the present me knows such petty matters wouldn’t make a dent in our friendship.

I just need to remember: I do not need to be perfect. I do not need to comply to everyone’s wishes and needs. I do not need praise to survive.

I will live for myself.