I guess we're on an upswing in personal content here. This is my blog and I'll write whatever I want I suppose, but I thought I was transitioning out of putting a lot of deep inner monologues on the internet. Wouldn't be the first time I was wrong about myself... certainly won't be the last. It's two in the morning, I'm sober in Syracuse and I want to move on from the alienation post... so here goes.
I think I'm finally coming around to realizing something about myself. It's something I've heard myself say a thousand times, and if one were to scroll through this blog I'm sure the same declaration has worked its way into my self-examinations. I am essentially a solitary person. I live most of my life in my head, even when I'm surrounded by people... I'm embarrassed to say that I'm usually in my head somewhere even when there's only one person talking to me. I'm a pro at "active listening", at picking up the breaks in the conversation and saying something innocuous and vague that lets the other person "know" that I'm being attentive. I'm usually not being attentive, usually I'm not listening because something is rattling around in my head making too much noise and taking up the space usually reserved for real-time interlocutors. I'm always overwhelmed in some way or another, and I guess lately I've started burning out.
I was always looking for something. That was my excuse before. I wasn't popular in the early years, being awkward and pretentious, always reading books that were way over my head and hanging out with people that were way older than me. I was always reaching for something that I wasn't quite ready for because wherever I was supposed to be wasn't working out. I've always taken such a proactive approach to everything. I think I can fix things that are going wrong just by making it all so much harder, because -- I suppose -- if something is difficult then I'll learn something even if the end result doesn't meet my expectations. The problem at this point presents itself: I'm old enough and competent enough to be able to do pretty much anything I want. All those books didn't go entirely over my head, and now the challenge is hanging out with people who are so much younger than I am. But the results are still not meeting my expectations.
What are my expectations? This is the sticky part. Undoubtedly they are wholly unrealistic. Undoubtedly whatever it is that would unwind this knot in my chest is not something I can just go out and grab. If it were, I would have grabbed or at least grasped it by now. So... *deep breath* ... I have to own the knot in my chest. I have to stop pushing myself out into the world, trying to talk to every person that crosses my path. I have to stop looking for the riveting conversation, the surprising sense of humor, the beautiful turn of phrase. I *have* all these things, I know all these beautiful people who literally make my world turn on its eccentric axis and who pick me up when I fall into that self-deepening, imaginary hole of nobody loves me. It's unconscionable that with all the love that I have in my life, with all the people who listen to my ridiculous stories and put up with my manias, that I should still be looking over their shoulders for something else.
Kierkegaard, somewhere, talked about "dissipating oneself in conversation." I think of that phrase over and over again. I don't remember which book it's from or how long ago I read it, but it's stuck like an orange traffic cone in my wheel well, thump thump thump thump thump. I don't know anything else, what else is there for me but conversation? But I can feel myself being dissipated as the years go by, and all these millions of conversations don't bring me that thing that I want. In the moment I am elated, I can't stop thanking the powers that be for giving me such an interesting life. But there's a part of me that still wishes desperately that I were invisible, so I could just enjoy my friends' faces around a bonfire, so that I could tune in and out, attending to the images and threads their insights fill my head with. There are so many times when I wish I could only express myself like this, to an empty page, to some ideal person who could... I don't know, understand it all? Make it all seem worth it? It's the problem of my expectations, I don't know what I want, just that when I come home I'm both relieved and devastated, because it wasn't tonight, I didn't find it, and I'll have to try again tomorrow.
I'm tired of trying. I have everything I ever said I wanted. So, my ideal interlocutor doesn't exist yet, I can't describe them, I don't know that I'd know them if they spoke to me, so in the meantime I'm just dissipating myself in conversation. I'm neglecting my true friends in the pursuit of imaginary soulmates, and it's making me miserable. What's the plan of action? I'm going to become a homebody. Obviously I'm not going to stop going out or meeting new people, but that's not the mission anymore. I'm going to make a little home in my body that I can take with me, where I can peer out the windows and only invite in the people who I know won't muddy up my carpets or pocket my knick-knacks. There's been far too much of the open door policy lately, as though I had no boundaries or personal possessions. As though I couldn't lock my door or even pull down the blinds. I prefer the comfort of a wingback chair in my own living room to the stark naked trust of full disclosure. This is new and old at the same time. I've always wanted a comfortable wingback chair, with an ottoman to put my feet up and wings wide (and low) enough that I could just doze off in the middle of a chapter. I've just always thought I was too young to retire. Maybe now is the perfect time, since I couldn't have gotten here without everything else I've put myself through. Maybe all this alienation is just the tide I never allowed myself to feel before, because I hadn't done enough or felt enough to step back from the high-water mark. It was always just another challenge, another difficult thing that I'd gain in defying. I don't feel so defiant anymore, it hasn't made me happy. I'm going to try to be happy, and leave all the amorphous tortures for the page, for characters that are not me. Maybe I'll write those books instead of living them, and maybe that will be better.
I think I'm finally coming around to realizing something about myself. It's something I've heard myself say a thousand times, and if one were to scroll through this blog I'm sure the same declaration has worked its way into my self-examinations. I am essentially a solitary person. I live most of my life in my head, even when I'm surrounded by people... I'm embarrassed to say that I'm usually in my head somewhere even when there's only one person talking to me. I'm a pro at "active listening", at picking up the breaks in the conversation and saying something innocuous and vague that lets the other person "know" that I'm being attentive. I'm usually not being attentive, usually I'm not listening because something is rattling around in my head making too much noise and taking up the space usually reserved for real-time interlocutors. I'm always overwhelmed in some way or another, and I guess lately I've started burning out.
I was always looking for something. That was my excuse before. I wasn't popular in the early years, being awkward and pretentious, always reading books that were way over my head and hanging out with people that were way older than me. I was always reaching for something that I wasn't quite ready for because wherever I was supposed to be wasn't working out. I've always taken such a proactive approach to everything. I think I can fix things that are going wrong just by making it all so much harder, because -- I suppose -- if something is difficult then I'll learn something even if the end result doesn't meet my expectations. The problem at this point presents itself: I'm old enough and competent enough to be able to do pretty much anything I want. All those books didn't go entirely over my head, and now the challenge is hanging out with people who are so much younger than I am. But the results are still not meeting my expectations.
What are my expectations? This is the sticky part. Undoubtedly they are wholly unrealistic. Undoubtedly whatever it is that would unwind this knot in my chest is not something I can just go out and grab. If it were, I would have grabbed or at least grasped it by now. So... *deep breath* ... I have to own the knot in my chest. I have to stop pushing myself out into the world, trying to talk to every person that crosses my path. I have to stop looking for the riveting conversation, the surprising sense of humor, the beautiful turn of phrase. I *have* all these things, I know all these beautiful people who literally make my world turn on its eccentric axis and who pick me up when I fall into that self-deepening, imaginary hole of nobody loves me. It's unconscionable that with all the love that I have in my life, with all the people who listen to my ridiculous stories and put up with my manias, that I should still be looking over their shoulders for something else.
Kierkegaard, somewhere, talked about "dissipating oneself in conversation." I think of that phrase over and over again. I don't remember which book it's from or how long ago I read it, but it's stuck like an orange traffic cone in my wheel well, thump thump thump thump thump. I don't know anything else, what else is there for me but conversation? But I can feel myself being dissipated as the years go by, and all these millions of conversations don't bring me that thing that I want. In the moment I am elated, I can't stop thanking the powers that be for giving me such an interesting life. But there's a part of me that still wishes desperately that I were invisible, so I could just enjoy my friends' faces around a bonfire, so that I could tune in and out, attending to the images and threads their insights fill my head with. There are so many times when I wish I could only express myself like this, to an empty page, to some ideal person who could... I don't know, understand it all? Make it all seem worth it? It's the problem of my expectations, I don't know what I want, just that when I come home I'm both relieved and devastated, because it wasn't tonight, I didn't find it, and I'll have to try again tomorrow.
I'm tired of trying. I have everything I ever said I wanted. So, my ideal interlocutor doesn't exist yet, I can't describe them, I don't know that I'd know them if they spoke to me, so in the meantime I'm just dissipating myself in conversation. I'm neglecting my true friends in the pursuit of imaginary soulmates, and it's making me miserable. What's the plan of action? I'm going to become a homebody. Obviously I'm not going to stop going out or meeting new people, but that's not the mission anymore. I'm going to make a little home in my body that I can take with me, where I can peer out the windows and only invite in the people who I know won't muddy up my carpets or pocket my knick-knacks. There's been far too much of the open door policy lately, as though I had no boundaries or personal possessions. As though I couldn't lock my door or even pull down the blinds. I prefer the comfort of a wingback chair in my own living room to the stark naked trust of full disclosure. This is new and old at the same time. I've always wanted a comfortable wingback chair, with an ottoman to put my feet up and wings wide (and low) enough that I could just doze off in the middle of a chapter. I've just always thought I was too young to retire. Maybe now is the perfect time, since I couldn't have gotten here without everything else I've put myself through. Maybe all this alienation is just the tide I never allowed myself to feel before, because I hadn't done enough or felt enough to step back from the high-water mark. It was always just another challenge, another difficult thing that I'd gain in defying. I don't feel so defiant anymore, it hasn't made me happy. I'm going to try to be happy, and leave all the amorphous tortures for the page, for characters that are not me. Maybe I'll write those books instead of living them, and maybe that will be better.
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