I’m always complaining about something/someone I know. And this is the second time in a very short period that I am making a character sketch I probably have no right to make. The good news is that I think I’m past caring.
There is a particular type of person I am more than tired of: the kind that always has to be in charge. I can only describe this kind of person based on the ones I am exposed to daily. (Goodness knows HGIC has an overdose of them. The school might as well be their factory.) These are the types of people who have been given positions of power already, more often than not. They could also be the ones who expect to be given positions of power sooner or later. Because, of course, they’re shoo-ins. (We can talk about the idea of this “intellectual community” entirely confusing the ability to conduct an activity well with the ability to lead people in how to conduct an activity well, but that’s for another time.)
These people, the ones who have what I call the Be-In-Charge Syndrome, have two states. The first is “loud”. The second is “silent”. The former is slipped into when there is a desperate attempt to showcase their positions of power, which may or may not be necessary at that time. The necessity isn’t even the problem, though. The problem is the desperation. It comes with that cock-sureness of “You Cannot Oppose Me”, and a flaunting of the idea that they know more about a particular subject than everyone else. Sometimes, they actually do. The knowledge isn’t even the problem. The drowning everyone else out is.
These people, resting in their entitlement, make attempts to steer and control situations to a degree that tires me out more than nearly everything (except perhaps some of the teachers I know). You can read their entitlement in their gaze when you look into their eyes. They walk with a magnitude of forced confidence so high that I wonder if they return to their rooms at night to wallow in self-loathing, exhausted from the fronting.
They wear fluster and frustration like fashion. These are the only clothes in which they feel comfortable. They must look busy, or they will feel as insignificant as the rest of us. They must give themselves a million things to do at once, or they will feel on the same level as the rest of us peasants, and that simply will not do. We have never been worthy.
Crease lines on the forehead, according to them, are the latest trend. They must be making schedules, or arranging the logistics stuff at all times. They must either be ordering people about, or being ordered about (poskaya or however you spell that word) so much that they feel that whatever project they are working on will burn to an unrecognizable rubble if they were to function at anything less than 200% of their capacity. Oh, how these people tire me! It is as if their whole existence hinges upon the appearance of importance. Maybe it is their heart-breaking attempt to convince themselves that they are relevant.
What is the most annoying aspect of these personalities, in my opinion, is when they slip into their “silent” phases. It is not so much the fact that they are silent that irks me, but rather, the reason for it. This is a result of the all-or-nothing mentality that they possess. If they are not in charge, they short-circuit, and must detach completely. When they cannot dominate a conversation, they would rather not take part in it. After all, what’s the point? If you can’t be Numero Uno all the time, why play the game, right?
Sometimes, I feel like the only corrective measure for these people is for everything to be taken away from them. For them to be straight-up displaced from their comfort zones. Maybe then, maybe finally, they will learn how to recognize themselves, when their existence is not mentally tied to how everyone else sees them. Maybe one day they will stop running away from their own personalities, away from the personalities they believe they are expected to have.
…But I doubt it.
It’s funny. In reality, they’re not in charge. They’re puppets.
Of course, now I’m going to ask you to download my novella, Puppets, because I am legitimately ALWAYS talking about this. But I’ve condensed it into 48 pages, so like, wharrayou waiting forrr?