December 30, 2002
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If you hadn’t guessed, some Heavy Shit is weighing on my shoulders of late. There’s really no one to share it with, not even you, my loyal Xanga readers who put up with my moody crap.
Every time I come to Texas, I end up like this, but staying at home in Seattle would be twice as lonely.
I’m looking at the prospect of doing some dangerous work. Work that’s dangerous to the status quo my nervous system finds comfortable. In most people, that status quo is a healthy barrier between oneself and the world. In my case, it’s a castle wall around a plot of land so tiny as to not provide sustenance. Nothing to sow, nothing to till, nothing to eat. The king has to walk around outside the castle, disguised as a peasant, just to buy food.
…to over-extend the metaphor. But it’s true. I have to relinquish my sovereignty of self to make anything work. That’s why the work is dangerous.
To normal people, this sounds like some kind of self-justification, some kind of cop-out. An example of Homer making excuses for himself. But it’s not, and if you disagree you can piss off.
I see it as a universal struggle. Everyone goes through this. Everyone has to decide where the world ends and they begin. The difference is that most people can’t see this process happening, and if you ask them about it, they’ll find it difficult (at best) to admit that their sense of self comes from their healthy neurology. A neurology that can develop in expected ways given social interaction. That’s one of the parlor games the mind plays on itself; it refuses to believe it’s a bag of neurons. But for people like me, a healthy sense of self has to come from somewhere else. It has to come from where I can find it.
Which further alienates me. It’s dangerous work. I’ve got the medical profession telling me I’m a medical oddity. I’ve got people in my life telling me to just get on with it. I’ve got my own inner criticisms which are tougher than anything the world can throw at me. I’ve got a sense of betrayal. I feel a sense of duty to people it hurts to be around. I’ve got grief bigger than my body. I’m confused about where to start. I’m anxious about a world where it’s OK to start wars to fix gas prices. It just never stops.
People tell me: “There are medications for that.” And in doing so, they imply that it’s my fault that no one understands me. My fault that the world conspires to depress me. My fault that I haven’t compartmentalized my perception into easy categories of ‘matters’ and ‘doesn’t matter.’ It all matters. Ignorance isn’t the answer, and neither is numbing myself.
Comments (5)
A lot of us have a lot of hard work to do. You sound very self-aware, and that’s an important tool to have in your arsenal. Sounds like a good start. Good luck.
What can I say? Stay as safe as you possibly can from danger.
There is one and there is nothing. 0-1-0-1-0-1.
What do you know. The language of digital brains. Binary code.
That last line in important to remember.
And you know what? I have absolutely NO answers or suggestions. I’m just here reading.
You are standing in a familiar place, familiar to me (though certainly not identical, thankfully, you will never have to stand in my crazy spot and I will never have to stand in yours) and I am sorry. Extend and push the boundaries as best you can (my mama says baby steps), step into the danger. Though it is hard work, and though it is dangerous work, it is GOOD work, and you will be okay, you will still be you, at the end of it.
Just my thought.
the most difficult step is to jump into the maelstrom. you’ve already done that….