Growth

I’ve been rather jumbled lately. My writing has dissipated to an almost nothing, a hint of a whisper in the back of my mind. Actually, it’s more of a constant run-on sentence of analysis, dream, and guilt which refuses to focus into a cohesive line. So instead of writing my musings and airing my thoughts in the public forum, I have been reduced to running about the world like a typical New Yorker in the full bloom of unrealized life. I am busy, busy, busy. . . too busy to contemplate writing an essay on life or experience. (The fact that I have a very understanding partner doesn’t necessarily help the literary agenda; I often just share my thoughts verbally with him, feel understood, and leave it at that. Sorry ghost-audience.)

So what is this? Well, I got taken down by a militant sinus infection, and so I’ve been stuck at home, in bed, for two days. I’m starting to go a bit crazy after twenty-seven billion episodes of Murder She Wrote. I’ve started yelling aloud, “AHA! I knew it was her!!” even when D is working in the next room. I’ve tried contemplating the sixteen separate projects that each need individual attention, but it’s no use. I don’t want to do the busy work today (even if it’s great busy work that I love. . . like learning a Schumann or Beach cycle).

Instead I went for a tiny walk so that I could remember what it is to be alive in this city, and my head began to buzz with background chatter come full center. The never-ending theoretical debate of what it would take to heal our collective soul, why I still sometimes contemplate running in front of a passing bus, what my mother thinks about decisions that have long since been made, and a recent conversation with someone who used to be a close friend.

I had rather expected said conversation to be short, awkward, and informative. It really wasn’t any of these, but something more. . . human? I retreated to old self-patterns, quick to apologize, reticent to outwardly blame (though I’m sure the indirect blame read clearly). I fell back to a strong pattern of humanity-shame, a trait that has in many ways defined my early twenties; a trait I have been actively rejecting in my late twenties (That’s right! I’m twenty-six, thank you very much).

Humanity –shame is the product of a perverted thinking whereby I intentionally reject the parts of myself that are unpleasant, imperfect, or embarrassing. When I pretend that I haven’t just had a petty thought about another person, it is because of my humanity-shame. The same when I hide my disappointment from another to save hir feelings. Also when I take all possible blame for an incident that clearly involves two or more people. It’s the result of an effort I made to become a better person than I was in my late teens, combined with a really old tendency to avoid/mend all conflicts.

Basically, I noticed that it was no longer serving me on my current journey. Humanity-shame blocks my ability to truly connect to others on a human to human basis, because it seeks to uproot my own nature as a person. How can I truly empathize if I’m pretending to be an uber-robot? How can I give my partner my truest, my best self and love if I continually attempt to hide the unflattering parts of myself? If I’m never honest when he disappoints me? The truth is that I cannot be the person I want to be as an idyllic robot; I must be fully human to be a good person. Flaws and all.

It is my hope that this journey toward greater human-ness will define these next few years before giving way to another practical journey. I believe I once wrote, on this very blog, about wishing to be utterly perfect- greatest of patience, humble, giving. . . never needing anything. I see now the idealism of my earlier thoughts, and I love that part of myself, but I also recognize that it is folly to attempt to quash all of one’s humanity. My impatience, my greediness for all the lambie gummies in the Gummy Bag, my petty thoughts about others and their dramas, and my persistent need for attention cannot be suppressed into non-existence. These things must be experienced, accepted, and lived through in order to learn how to live beyond them.

It does not, as I may have previously believed, make me bad to have faults, to be a messy emotionalist, or to have needs. It seems to be one of the ironic truths of life that I cannot truly move past my shortcomings without first truly accepting them. It may sound cliché, but it’s all I’ve got for now.

Don't you like to pretend to be someone else? I do, too. A form of escapism, perhaps? A way vitality has of surviving, trying to creep through the cracks of damage and proclaim its existence? An internal fighter trying to stake its spot in the eventuality of progress? My most recent attempt at evading personal reality involved giving the name Laura at Starbucks. Unfortunately, I happened to try the lone shop in NY with a cashier committed enough to compare my given name with the plastic name on my credit card, so that when my drink was called I was forced to claim my name and own my reality. No chance of escapism even in a simple ruse. . . I should have said Fabio.

In the deep part, the tender spot, a small question keeps sounding: am I depressed?

Can I handle the answer? I look honestly at the evidence- the crying, the unhappiness, the insatiable, unnameable need. The conflicting desire to be held always and to be alone with my shame.

No, I am not depressed. At least not clinically. I am not under the thumb of the old regime. Though in some ways this is a kind of depression, a pain born out of the separation of me with my true self, I am not in need of chemical supplements or extra therapy. Well, actually I wouldn't mind a second session per week. . .

But my real point is to claim for myself the truth that there is a cause in this current amorphous ennui. There is a point to it, there is a path out of it, and it does not lie in the direction of a comparably simple label of depression. I am not myself these days and I can not hide it, even when I desperately want to. So much energy it would take to block up the obvious space in my eyes. To force a genuine smile takes so much effort when one really would prefer to cry.

What is so wrong with crying, anyways? It's embarrassing, a whiny voice declares. It's messy, the practical voice adds. But I need it, I counter. And I do.

What space could possibly be enough for my sadness? How did so much sadness gather? Whenever I begin to let it be free I become terrified that I will spew tears and sadness into the stratosphere without end, and so I try my hardest to contain the sadness, judge how much is appropriate to release, and adhere to those arbitrary levels.

Sometimes I just let go, and though it feels good to do so, there is always a critical voice inside, fearing that such shows are too much. Inevitably I feel embarrassed at owning such sadness. Where does the embarrassment come from? Constantly that word picks away at the best parts of myself. Slowly it devours my new resolves and crushes my newer senses of possibility and hope.

I wish I had a bit more hope.