The Absurd

I had this idea in mind for what was supposed to be a grand, robust examination of my guiding principles in the context of my struggle. It was gonna be this back n' forth dialogue full of nice, impactful Sorkin-lines, and it was gonna serve as a building block towards fixing all my shit. I actually wrote a good bit of it out, but that was like a few months ago, and shit changes.

Supposedly, anyway.

Last week I had a kind of low-yield collapse. I had an actual panic attack and my upper body broke out in hives due to some combination of heat and stress. I'm physically miserable and emotionally exhausted, and I've had to reckon with the fact that I'm pushing myself too hard to do things that are supposed to be fun.

Context: I spend a lot of my time role-playing. It's both a form of escapism and self-therapy, as well as good writing and character practice. I inarguably do it too much.

The problem with role-playing as I've done it is that it's still social contact. Yes, I understand that doesn't seem like a problem in and of itself, and it's not, really. I just find social contact stressful.

It's extremely stressful to feel like I have to constantly monitor and account for all parties. It's stressful to have to make very quick calculations about whether something I might say might have the wrong effect, or whether people are angry, or sad, or bored, or annoyed. I can't help but make those calculations, and they fuckin' do a number on my headspace.

I absolutely need to take a break from it, but I don't let myself. I keep signing up for shit, and I keep stifling my concerns, and I'm just running myself harder and harder into the ground. The possibly good news is that I've maybe-potentially figured out why I'm doing this.

We gotta go back to the Chessboard thing.

I told my therapist that I was super invested in the pieces, right? I told him that I associated them with those things about me that I like: my creativity, my wit, my empathy, and so on. I don't know if that was entirely accurate.

I think I've briefly talked about existentialism stuff here before. I recently started listening to Camus' 'The Myth of Sisyphus,' which is good.  Camus was an Absurdist, which is sort of an offshoot of Existentialism, which is the view that there is no inherent meaning to existence.

Absurdism is about finding joy in the mess of existing. 'The Absurd' refers to humanity's constant search for meaning in a meaningless universe, which Camus likens to Sisyphus' curse of rolling a rock uphill for eternity, about which Camus posits the notion that Sisyphus may be happy. He's doomed to do this thing that's ultimately fruitless, but what if he found a way to do it that brings him joy in the process?

And that's what it's all about: finding joy in the process of existing. I love that idea very much, and it's become quite central to my view of life, but it's not complete. Or, at least, it's not complete for me.

What is this search for meaning really about? Why is it so important for us to find it? What are we hoping to gain from it? Clearly there's no factual answer to those questions, but I think I've stumbled onto a manufactured one that might work for me.

I think what we hope finding meaning will give us is the same reason I'm so invested in those pieces: we want agency. We want to feel like we're in control of something. Anything. Feeling like we're in control gives us an anchor around which we can try to build things like a life, or a 'legacy,' whatever that means. We want to feel competent and secure so that we don't have to feel helpless and afraid - very natural desires.

===2 Days Later===

That's all well and good. Accepting the absurd means accepting a lack of control, yada yada, point summarized.

You know what the thing I'm neglecting is, though? With all this high-minded rumination and dissection, I'm ignoring the simpler truths of my mess. In an attempt to impress people with my wisdom and insight and other bullshit, I'm totally dodging a key piece:

I don't want to work on me.

And spare me the thing with this only being how part of me feels, or how I only sometimes feel this; motherfucker, I can feel multiple things at once, and I can feel them all the fucking time. I'm not string-skipping my feelings; I'm playing a fucking chord. A hard, grungy chord with so much distortion on it that you can't actually make out the notes.

I was raised to think that I was a waste of time. I was never told that explicitly, but being used as my dad's anger pillow sure as shit impressed that upon me. Why would I ever feel like trying to improve myself is worth the time and effort? Why would I try to help me when the people who were supposed to love me most wouldn't?

I'm tired of this sense that I should feel bad for not being more diligent about fixing my head. I'm tired of this idea that I'm wasting time by distracting myself and avoiding my shit.

LOOK WHAT HE DID TO ME. LOOK HOW HE BROKE ME AND HAD THE FUCKING GALL TO SAY HE LOVED ME.

See how he would terrorize me and then tell me how much he loved hearing me breathing as I slept nearby in that shitty, smoke-filled travel trailer. Feel how ashamed I was because I developed encopresis, and neither of my parents bothered to teach me how to wipe myself.

Suffocate on the misery of sitting in class, knowing everybody could fucking smell it.

Don't you sit there and be mad at me because I don't want to deal with that all the time. Don't bludgeon me with words like 'should,' and 'want,' and 'dreams,' like somehow I'm the cause of your angst. Because when you do that shit, you erase me, and I have to wonder if that's not the fucking point.

I know that I am uncomfortable for you. I'm uncomfortable for me, too. I know that you just want to move on, and you want to bury all of it, act like it never happened, but we both know that won't work.

We both know this is the actual thing you don't feel like you can accept. It's not how messy your apartment is, or how difficult it is to practice self-care. You don't want to accept how bad it was. You don't want to accept the agony, or the heartbreak, or the entire mountain ranges of shame that your precious colossus is built upon.

I don't want to accept that shit either, but not accepting it is the reason you feel worthless now. Not processing it is the reason everything is hard. You refuse to accept the basic fact that you never, ever deserved any of it, that you were a good, sweet child who only ever deserved to be loved and supported.

Because you can't accept that, you can't accept how exceptional it is that you came out of it as a good, sweet human being who only ever wants to make other people feel better, whose greatest ambition is to turn their pain into grace.

And so you can't accept compliments, and you can't accept that there are people who love you properly, who support you and want you to be happy and healthy. You can't accept the idea that you should care for yourself, that you deserve to take care of yourself. To love yourself.

That's why you're so goddamned invested in those pieces. You don't want the game to end because then all you're left with is yourself, and you can't think of anything you'd hate more than that.

That's what you have to accept. It's going to suck very hard, and there's no getting around that. You're going to accept every horror, and every indignity, and you're going to accept that it happened to a good person, and not some nameless 'thing.' You're going to accept that it happened to you, and not some nebulous fragment of your psyche.

You're going to cry a lot, and you're going to go through long stretches of increased depression and anxiety, and it will be exactly what you need.

You don't have to start right away, but you will have to start. This will need to happen before you can truly begin to right yourself. It's okay that it took this long; you'll understand on the other side of it why.

As bad as it will be, you've been through far worse.