Long Gone

"There is something fierce and starved about first ideas."
-John Darnielle, Wolf in White Van.

Sometimes I don't know myself that well.  In periods of stagnation, I tend to disconnect with myself.  My thoughts might seem unreasonable, or I simply don't feel comfortable in my own skin.  Any shred of motivation and willpower I once had seems to be on sabbatical.  I say this hoping that they return to me one day.

The past few months have been interesting in not-so-interesting ways.  It's easy to slip into a lull when suddenly all of your time is unstructured.  I became somewhat idle, my mind oscillating back and forth between a past that I cherished and a future that is full of possibility.  This leaves me feeling pretty dizzy and even dismal about where I am now.  I've been avoiding the present moment like it's that kid with snot running down his nose.  And no matter what I did or thought, the avoidance seemed to extend longer and longer.  The bizarre thing is that I see the barriers forming with some sickening fascination.  How many days in a row could one possibly drink alcohol?  Exercise isn't that essential, right?  I might come up with an idea worth pursuing only to shoot it down in a bout of self-defeat.  There are other things, but I wouldn't say I've done irreversible damage to my body.  The strange thing is that I'm allowing my apathetic/selfish impulses to take over.  In moments of clarity I can see that this is pointless behavior, yet it persists.  In a nutshell, these are some of the personal battles I've been fighting to become a real adult.  My immature self is clinging on to whatever it has with indignation, and my mind is accumulating nonsense.  Is this minor suffering self imposed?  Is it easily remedied?

I'm reminded me of a scene from a Philip K. Dick novel: a gritty sub-level dwelling, full of dusty belongings but sparsely a soul worth knowing.  I even look around my room now and wonder where all of these things came from.  Old books from donation bins that will likely end up back in donation bins.  Pens and pencils that don't get much use.  Clothes that I wear, and an even bigger pile of clothes I don't need.  A bike with a flat tire.  Two unicycles with flat tires.  Everything looks a bit used and not so well kept.  And at its center is the little bit of life that's clinging on.  When did I develop such a lack of respect for things?  With a little upkeep my room could be shining and remarkable, and maybe then it would start to restore my faltering mood.  I'm surrounded by fascinating animals, too, but unfortunately their biology wasn't meant to coexist with mine and the subsequent allergies leave my mind obstructed and my body lethargic.

I count my blessings, however, and I do have anchors of my own to keep myself from drifting too far.  Depending on how I look at the last few months I could see it as a partial waste of my life or at least a taste of a lackluster existence—perhaps a message of what happens when you let short-term desires take over.  I might have days of severe doubt and depressive thoughts, but I'm not totally lost.  I have things to look forward to, though as I tell it I'm a fluctuating mixture of anxiety and excitement.  I acknowledge that my current situation is temporary, but enduring it doesn't get much easier.  Some days are good and some are rough.  That probably describes life for most of us, though the details might be different.

The trick is to reframe the negative, but it's not always easy.  We might be unhappy about a situation, so we either accept it or change it to alleviate suffering.  Some things are not so easily changed and we might choose to accept them instead of investing the effort.  Death is a good example.  Most of us will spend our lives convincing ourselves that death can be perceived as a beautiful thing, because naturally there is no way around it—no amount of effort can alter this.  Few of us will choose to let this happen sooner than later.  So death is, in simplistic terms, both good and bad—but obviously those labels don't offer any satisfaction.  We avoid it as much as we can while celebrating it when it occurs.  When a family pet falls ill we might choose on its behalf to euthanize it, potentially before any prolonged suffering manifests.  It's not usually an easy decision, no matter the being, but those thoughts do occur.

It's acceptable to think this way, however, so I don't imagine it any differently for myself.  Sometimes fantasizing about death can open you up to how something is really making you feel.  I'm not saying I want to commit self-death, but merely admitting that we find death fascinating and occasionally tempting.  Of course we don't all give in to temptation.  I think of authors like Plath or Wallace or Hemingway and wonder what they must have seen or thought to drive them to that choice.  What makes their writing so enticing is perhaps this morbid fascination.  Surely there are writers who achieve this tone, even overcoming suicidal thoughts, without killing themselves, too.

So how do I spend the rest of my time convincing you that I'm totally fine, and looking forward to things to come?  Admittedly this sort of writing—indulging in dark thoughts—paints an incomplete picture of who I am.  This is just a tiny facet of my personality, though some might be surprised that it gets any exposure at all.  I simply wonder what our common ground in all of this is.  I have friends who have more experience in this stuff than I do, but their stories affect me as well.  I consider myself lucky to have that sort of connection with a person that allows them to candidly express their feelings on such a subject.  I consider these feelings an homage to them, to people who can muster up some emotional strength when prospects don't look good.  "Hard times are ahead," a warning sign might flash.  Yet in the day-to-day stuff we find little things to make us happy.  I usually stay away from the overly optimistic, although my mother did instill in me a framework for positive thinking.  But I don't think either "way" of thinking—positive or negative—is a useful way to consider something so complex.

The title of this post was initially written with the intent of discussing my upcoming volunteer assignment in Africa, but evidently other things are on my mind that need to be addressed before other ideas can unfold.  Still, the title seems apt.  The time is fast approaching, however, and pretty soon I will have new concerns to mull over.  Thanks to my lovely sister I managed to get my medical paperwork done and I'll know more about my assignment in early May.  Until then, I'm just trying to imagine a life I can't really imagine.  Thanks for reading.