The site going down for as long as it did feels like part of the last gasp of an awful time of my life coming to a close. Until now, I simply haven’t had the resources to do things like pay a large invoice like the one for my host, even a yearly one. Along with finally securing a good and lucrative job that plays to my strengths and fosters a healthy environment, my mental and emotional turbines have spun up to a good level of power. Above all, I’ve done a good deal of work in being more gentle with myself, and remembering that, no matter what I or anyone else might say, I’m only human.
Even now, at times, I struggle to refrain from being hard on myself to the point that people say I am “beating myself up.” Home and work life are both in a form that remind me that it’s okay if I don’t have all the answers, or insufficient spoons to do a particular chore. It’s much better in the long run to admit that you don’t know than pretend you do and be found out later. That’s part of the problem I have with the whole “fake it ’til you make it” thing — I’d rather be known for who I really am than have people engage favorably with a false front conveying false knowledge and false confidence.
I’ve dealt with those people. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.
Showing up as myself, the person I’ve been working hard to be for over a year, is something to which I’m unaccustomed. My habits have always been to make more room for others, turn myself down for others, get out of the way of others. I’ve always seen putting myself first as too selfish, too disagreeable. Some of my experiences pointed towards that being the truth, and I bought into that as the rule, rather than exceptions. But with a little thought, and the growth I’ve experienced, it’s clear that looking after my own best interests is neither disagreeable nor selfish in the way that taking all of the cookies or drinking all of the beer is selfish.
If I am looked after, I can produce, write, and be there for others.
I’m the only person I can rely upon to look after me.
Therefore, to look after myself is not selfish.
That’s been the crux of this corner upon which I turn. Giving more thought to myself, my words, and my actions — it’s still a bit new to me. I still need reminders that my feelings and opinions are just as valid as those of the people around me, and that I am allowed to occupy the space in which I exist. I’ve had trouble believing that in the past. Some of my more recent experiences could have reinforced the notion that I am unworthy of friends, affection, or success. It’s taken a lot of effort to fight back against those feelings, those learned behaviors. I’m still unlearning them, and teaching myself new ones. I don’t want to perpetuate old habits, pattern arguments, or anything of the sort.
As far as I’ve come, as much as I’ve done, it’s all just part of turning a corner.
And turning a corner means that the journey, and the work to make it a survivable, lucrative, and memorable one, is far from over.
“This is not normal” has become something of a rallying call for the resistance against the rising regime on a local, national, and international level. It’s not a bad place to begin. It’s true, after all — none of the confusing and detrimental decisions being made by this rising regime we’re dealing with is normal. And yet, people are trying to make this situation in which we’re now living normal.
“Stop protesting,” they say. “Accept your new president. Get a job.”
They try to silence voices of dissent while their demagogue leaders silence voices of fact-seeking and science.
This is not normal.
Then again, neither am I.
I’ve never been ‘normal.’ Even before my diagnoses began to emerge, I didn’t fit in very well. Teachers told my parents that I would “always march to the beat of [my] own drummer.” In a way, for a long time, I’ve been afraid to truly stand out, or assert my own goals or personality. I felt more comfortable trying to weave it into the patterns of others, in their individual lives or the life of a community. I never really took care of or connected with myself; I made the needs and wants of others more of a concern. When my own desires would emerge, I’d be impulsive or even reckless in pursuing them, and then berate or flagellate myself (or worse) in the aftermath. I understand now how typical that is of those with bipolar disorder, even my less severe flavor of Type II.
That impulsiveness or recklessness was never normal, nor is it, nor will it ever be.
Some chose to subscribe to the interpretation that they were, and are, and always will be.
Those toxic, short-sighted, and regressive perceptions of me are not normal.
Just like this new regime and its toxic, short-sighted, and regressive decisions are not normal.
I think that’s an underlying reason why people trying to normalize such things pisses me off. It’s the same sort of normalization people tried to ascribe to my aberrant behavior.
I don’t know where this infection of imagination came from. I don’t know why so many people, some of whom I used to believe were incredibly adept at imagining others complexly and engaging in progressive, independent thought, fell so easily into group-think tendencies and mob mentalities. Correcting erroneous thinking and toxic behavior is never a simple, once-and-done affair; it takes sustained, thoughtful, compassionate effort.
Some people, I guess, just don’t care enough to do that.
That should not be, nor should it ever be, normal.
We are on this planet together. We are in this fight for survival together. And we will not survive if we continue to tear ourselves apart just to get one over on our neighbor.
We need to fight back against ignorance and mindless mob mentalities. We need to demand more comprehensive and compassionate allowance for the rights of individual human beings. We need to put a stop to the toxicity and fascism.
The challenges that we as independent thinkers and non-normative humans are facing are going to be increasing in pervasiveness and difficulty as the next few years unfold. We’ve already had to work hard to maintain that this new status quo that most people are settling into is not normal, nor will it ever be. We’ve voiced our stance of standing up for those who are, now more than ever, targets of an emboldened, vocal, and violent minority. We’ve resolved to hold together.
I want to add to all of that — with which I agree completely and will shout from mountaintops as I light every beacon I can find — a warning. The big thing fueling the new boldness of the willfully ignorant and gleefully hateful is utter and thoughtless submission to groupthink. While we as individuals draw a lot of strength from solidarity, and should never be expected to handle challenges like this on our own, the trick is to not fall into the sort of non-thought that makes people jump to conclusions, ignore facts, and pour more fuel and add more weaponry to any number of bandwagons. We must never lose our grip on individual thought, never stop questioning sources, never stop investigating accusations with care and thorough consideration for all, even the accused. After all, at least on some level, the accused are human beings, too.
I use the turn of phrase “imagine each other complexly” on a pretty regular basis. I picked it up from John Green and the greater community called ‘the Nerdfighters’. While personal experiences have soured me against greater participation in medium or large groups, as I said above, sometimes we must fall back into communities that can and wish to support us. The problems arise when elements of those communities cease fostering the independent thought of its constituents, and instead issue clarion calls that demand affirmation while denying or even expelling counter-arguments. I’ve seen people raise contrary points of view to sweeping statements that have little basis in facts only to be silenced, ridiculed, and even accused of themselves being coerced, blinded, or ‘traitorous’. That is not imagining each other complexly. That’s groupthink. That’s toxicity.
When we imagine each other complexly, we take into consideration our backgrounds, our experiences, our points of view, our motivations. While intent does not free one from the consequences of action, the source of our motivations can be revealed as ultimately faulty, due to one of those factors. If we can come to terms with such things, we can work to correct our mistakes, seek reconciliation from those affected, foster better communication within our communities and, as a result, become even stronger and more positive. When instead we make grandiose declarations that seek to divide, expel, and generally cast community members as ‘other’, we reduce the authenticity of said community. It becomes less a gathering of like minds and, for those employing these divisive tactics, tools for personal advancement.
To hold together is to avoid this at all costs. To hold together is to challenge those who’d fall into such patterns of behavior. To hold together is to foster one another as individuals, to imagine each other complexly, to practice and share love, a dedication to facts and forgiveness, and the ultimately mutually beneficial goal of holding space for those who can make our communities better, stronger, and more resilient.
Make no mistake. The groupthinkers, the willfully ignorant, the knee-jerk reactionaries, the insidious demagogues and oligarchs on scales large and small — they will not do this. They will place themselves in the way of progress. They will seek to silence all dissent, rally supporters with incendiary invective, prey on fear and foster negative influences that deny the facts. They will shun more complex and comprehensive responses, and expect you to do the same. They will pat you on the back when you succumb to anger and trauma, and foster that into feelings of hate and personal admonition. They will weaken you to make themselves stronger. They will divide and destroy. And they will laugh and celebrate their victories the entire way.
Personally, I do not know how or why this has become the baseline for discourse in the past year. I’ve seen it in so many aspects, from small communities that I thought were above it to the larger political machine of the United States. And while I want to find the root causes, understand the motivations and goals of those who seek to rob us of our freedom, I know that, in the end, those are not the people who think I matter, who care about me (if they ever really did), who’d hold space for me and imagine me complexly.
We must fight this sort of toxicity. We must foster healthier discourse between us as individuals. We must imagine each other complexly, stand in solidarity against ignorance and hatred, and lovingly but firmly demand of one another the denial of groupthink and the exaltation of each individual being an individual and still making whatever community we choose to support better, stronger, and more exemplary of the best that this species has to offer.
We must hold together.
Wednesdays I wonder at the world in which we live.
The following is a non-profit work of fan-fiction. Magic: the Gathering and its attendant characters, locations, terminology, and events are owned by Wizards of the Coast, Richard Garfield, Mark Rosewater, et al. All rights reserved. Please support the official release.
Dominarian taverns always felt like home, moreso than just about anywhere else. Save maybe its crypts.
She stepped through the doors, glancing around and stretching out her senses. A Planeswalker never truly lost their connection to home, even if something horrible happened to it. Nissa’s crisis on Zendikar and Chandra’s on Kaladesh were prime examples. Her manor might be located on Innistrad, but she wasn’t about to act like Sorin Markov and just… ignore a problem on the plane of her birth. It would definitely be nice if nothing like that happened here. And if she could avoid the attention of that accursed Raven Man or any of a number of demons, that’d be even better. Hence borrowing one of Jace’s spare cloaks — he had a closet full of the things, surely he wouldn’t mind the loan, even if she’d taken it without permission. It looked better on her, anyway. This one was enchanted to conceal the wearer from passing notice. He’d crafted it after he failed to sneak around Innistrad.
Not that such precautions were necessary in the current setting. This tavern was particularly raucous and chaotic. The infamous Festival of Estark was right around the corner, and many of the commoners were caught up in the excitement and preparing for the event with drink and the occasional friendly (or not-so-friendly) brawl. She kept her hood up as she navigated the loud and somewhat smelly interior of the tavern. It was a modest affair, a waystation and inn about halfway between Kush and Barbar, which partially explained the shouting.
On the floor in each of the tavern’s four corners were circles laid out in brass, laid into the wood and measuring about a two meters in diameter. They were meant to contain the spells of the fighter-mages of Kush’s Houses who tested their skills and fought for cash. Three of the circles were occupied in such contests. One had a mage in brown pitching a group of gibbering goblins against their gray-clad opponent’s swarm of plague-ridden rats. In the opposite corner, a mage in turquoise watched as a squad of spear-wielding pixies probed the floating spirits of a patient-looking mage wearing orange. The last circle was being paced by a short man in a ragged coat, who alternated between calling the action to the raucous onlookers and shilling for bets, and admonishing the young turquoise mage, who was locked in a battle of wills with a purple fighter three times his senior.
Liliana opted against joining any of the circle crowds, and instead made for the bar. Sitting apart from everyone else, nursing a mug of ale, was a tall man in a half-cloak, its edge embroidered with subtle swirls of metal thread. He didn’t radiate power as much as quietly seethe with it, and that alone made him worth her attention. Perhaps he was what had tickled her instincts across the planes.
She perched on the stool beside him, carefully not drawing attention as the barkeep approached.
“Care for a drink, miss?” The man behind the bar was amiable, and his breath didn’t stink too much. A minor miracle, that.
“Wine, if you have any,” she replied. The bartender looked a bit puzzled, then dropped out of sight to begin rummaging through bottles. He eventually produced a dark bottle covered in a fine layer of dust. He dug up a glass after some loud rummaging, and wiped it clean with the corner of his apron. The bottle’s label depicted an armored warrior in Estark’s iconic Arena doing battle what some sort of wyvern or dragon whelp. She picked up the bottle, frowning at the gaucheness of the spectacle in general and this bottle in particular, and poured.
At least it didn’t taste too terrible.
Having paid for her seat, she turned her senses to the man next to her. Following the scent of mana to this location hadn’t been difficult — it was removed enough from the common folk that the House fighter-mages could practice their skills in relative anonymity against members of other Houses. But this man, far from the revelry, was the most likely source of what she’d felt way out in Ravnica.
Along with the inscrutable and unwelcome dread that twisted in her stomach.
Her perception brushed up against her neighbor’s soul the way a teasing dancer would brush silk against a handsome member of their audience. What are you all about, handsome?
His response, metaphorically, was grabbing her wrist and staring into her eyes.
A chill ran down her spine and she broke contact as his head turned her way. A single eye burned under his brow, the other concealed by a dark patch, decorated with subtle swirls of embroidery that matched those of his half cloak. Liliana knew containment enchantments when she saw them. He wasn’t just hiding something. He was holding something back.
“Who are you, and why are you here?” His voice was quiet, crackling with power, tinged with weariness.
She rested her chin on one hand, the glass of wine in the other. “My name is Liliana Vess. And I’m here because I’m like you — powerful and misunderstood.”
His mouth twitched. “I highly doubt we’re anything alike.”
A smile touched at her lips. “Best way to find out is to get to know one another.” She crossed her legs, letting the slit of her skirt spread towards the floor.
It barely got a glance from the man. Liliana had to fight down a disappointed pout. Jace is more fun.
“I’m not in the mood for this sort of thing. Get to the point.”
The pout emerged like a ghoul from the shadows. “You really know how to take the wind out of a girl’s sails.”
His eye closed and he took a deep breath. “Miss Vess, I don’t mean any disrespect. I am simply trying to keep to myself and drink. I wanted to avoid attention. Which is why I came here.”
“Oh, I understand that entirely.” She took a sip of wine. Letting it breathe had helped reduce the bitterness. “I’ve spent a long time avoiding the attention of some truly heinous beings.” She studied his face for a moment. Not unattractive, and the silver shot through his dark hair and featuring especially at his temples made him look distinguished. “You know, when a lady gives you her name, it’s customary to give yours.”
He nodded. “Most would call me Garth.”
“And what do you call yourself?”
“Widowed.”
Pieces snapped into place in Liliana’s head. Her expression did not change.
“What was her name?”
“Rakel.”
“She must have been quite a woman, to get through that tough veneer of yours.”
He said nothing, but drank deeply of his ale.
A cry went up from the circle where the battle of wills had been taking place. Garth turned. The young turquoise mage extended a hand to the weary-looking purple man, who shook it. The caller in the raggedy coat gleefully collected bets from the crowd. A ghost of a smile, an expression of pride, flickered across Garth’s face.
Curiouser and curiouser. What are they to him?
Before she could investigate further, the door of the tavern began to shake in its frame. Repeated, strong blows from outside rattled against it. The fighter-mages dismissed their summoned servants as they turned towards what could be a real threat. When the door splintered, the source was revealed: several figures, elves and humans, all bearing various metals in their skins that looked like infections. Liliana felt the dread in her stomach turn to acidic horror. At least when she took control of servants, they were already dead, mindless and bent to her will since they had none of their own. Jace’s cloak must have carried some of his telepathy, because she could feel the torment of these living things pressed into the service of some insidious, cold agenda, bound to a hive-mind of boundless ambition and callous disregard for life.
Garth shot to his feet. His jaw twitched. Magic surged within him, a feeling undeniable to the planeswalking necromancer.
“Hammen,” he snapped.
Both the man in the ragged coat and the young turquoise mage moved to join him. Garth flung half of his cloak aside, freeing his right arm, and swept his hand in an arc before him. A circle of protection shimmered into being around them as Liliana drew in her power, light from the scars of her contracts burning to life.
At the same time, the other fighter-mages and some of the commoners rushed the intruders.
They never stood a chance.
Screams of the dying and infected rang through the tavern. Liliana seized the dead with her power as they fell, raising them again to protect her and the others on their side of the tavern from the onslaught. Garth summoned knights and spirits, some resembling elves, others treefolk. The invaders that reached them were rebuffed by Garth’s circle, save for a bestial thing that crashed through it undeterred. Before anyone else could act, Garth let out a savage bellow, lashing out with pure power to smash it to the ground, shattering it to pieces. He staggered back, grunting, a hand to his head.
That was something Liliana hadn’t felt in a while. It was an assault that had lacked Jace’s practiced, smug precision or Tamiyo’s patient, whimsical aplomb. It had been raw, unfettered psychic might, to a degree that it harmed the user almost as much as the target. She looked down at the circle that was protecting them from the infected elves; none of the humans had made it past the other fighter-mages.
This was old magic. Powerful spells unseen in the planes in some time.
Who are you?
Liliana turned her attention back to the fight at hand, rending the lifeforce from the infected elves, considering it a mercy to end their miserable servitude. No sooner had the last few crumpled to the ground than the whole wall of the tavern was smashed, the support beams barely keeping the roof intact. Some foolish youngster had conjured fire, and it was spreading. By the flickering, dangerous light, Liliana and Garth could make out the sight of a hulking form that had made its explosive entrance. It was a dark, spindly, horrible thing, and as fighter-mages lashed out with damaging spells, they fell away, power disintegrating from their minds. Unable to coordinate their strikes, the horror kept coming, straight for Liliana and Garth.
More horrors poured in after it. Liliana felt the dread within her growing to a nearly overwhelming level. The pressure of these things’ presence meant there was no time to planeswalk to safety. She raised every single corpse within sight and threw them between the circle and the oncoming horrors.
One of them reached for the man in the ragged coat, who cried out as he tried to raise a circle of his own.
“Damn it.” Garth’s jaw could have been set in stone. His neck muscles strained against his skin. His tension was a palpable thing, a bowstring drawn so taut it might snap in two. “Damn it all.”
He reached up and ripped the patch from his eye. Liliana glanced his way. The eye under the patch was intact, but it was golden with a vertical slit, glowing in the firelight, a start contrast to the dark, natural blue of the other. The skin around the golden eye was covered in scar tissue. A flare of power went out from the very center of the man. A Spark. A bright light in the oncoming darkness.
Garth left hand dove into the satchel hanging at his side, pulling out a golden ring. From it hung seven gems. Liliana’s appraising eye almost instantly recognized each one — Diamond. Emerald. Jet. Opal. Pearl. Ruby. Sapphire. Her breath caught in her throat. Garth made a fist in his right hand, took a moment to concentrate as the circle of protection collapsed, and looked up at the oncoming horrors bearing down upon them. He made a pushing gesture, his fist opening in an instant, and with a flash of light and a sound like an iron gong, a sphere resembling a full solar eclipse blossomed into being near the ceiling of the room. Pulled towards it, the horrors began to vanish, disintegrating into nothingness, along with the infected invaders, Liliana’s zombies, and all of the other summoned servants in the burning tavern. Liliana felt the cold pull of a void between the planes, and staring at the source, fought down a surge of terror.
“Run,” Garth said.
The four of them bolted out of the tavern, which began to crumble into the merciless singularity behind them, consuming flames, wood, corrupted bodies, insidious metal — all things. It even began to pull at those too wounded to move quickly, and the bystanders trying to help them. Garth gestured, and the maw to nowhere snapped shut. He turned to the two other male survivors.
“Master,” the man in the ragged coat breathed. “You…”
“This isn’t the time for half-measures or hiding what I am,” Garth said, returning the gems to his satchel. Liliana watched carefully — his use of such power had left him almost translucent, as if he’d been pulled towards another plane against his will. Only returning the gems and their power to his satchel kept him on Dominaria. Interesting.
Garth continued. “These things may be unknown to me, but it’s clear why they came. They came for me, for my experience, for what I paid for in blood so many years ago. Now, as before, I won’t let them fall into the wrong hands. I will not let Rakel’s sacrifice be in vain.” His paused, visibly holding back a tide of emotion. “I need you to take Hammen, and get as far away from me as you can.”
“But, Father…”
“I won’t hear it,” Garth told the young mage. His expression softened. “You fought bravely, both in the ring and against these creatures, and I’m very proud of you. Your mother would be, too. Now, please. Go with Uncle Hadin.”
“I… yes, Father.”
“Master,” Hadin repeated. “You swore to her. You swore never to use Kuthuman’s powers or treasures again. The cost…”
“I didn’t take back what he stole from Oor-tael to keep it tucked away when we’re under such an attack. Nor did I scour the world for the means of our survival just to die now, in this time.” His otherworldly eye flashed dangerously. “This is my home, and I’m going to defend it.”
“It’s mine as well.” Liliana pulled down the hood of Jace’s cloak. “I was born here. I was made here. And I’m not letting these things turn it into some sort of abomination.”
Garth smirked, his first expression even approaching mirth since Liliana had met him. “A necromancer talking about abominations in such terms?”
Liliana leveled her best withering glare at him. “Let’s not get into a competition of hypocrisy. We’ll be here all night.”
“Come on, Hammen,” Hadin said with a note of resignation in his voice. “Your father’s right. As much as I hate to admit it.” He looked up at the tall planeswalker. “I wish I could go with you.”
Garth laid a hand on the smaller man’s shoulder. “I’ve run from threats like this before, old friend. I helped us all run. But we can only run for so long before what we flee catches up with us. This is worse than anything else we’ve seen. And I won’t have it consume you or the rest of us. I need to find out how it was stopped before, and do the same, to the best of my ability. I hope you can understand that.”
Hadin nodded. “I can. We’ll be safe.”
The two turned away and Hadin conjured a portal for them to step through. Garth turned to Liliana.
“I haven’t… walked the planes in quite some time.”
Liliana smiled.
“It’s like falling off the world. You never really forget.” She looked down at the cloak she’d borrowed. Yes, that was the word. “I have some… allies I’d like you to meet. I think they could help.”
Garth nodded. “Let’s not stay away long. I feel like time is going to run out on us very quickly.”
“It always does.”
Mondays are for making or talking about art.
Credits: Magic the Gathering copyright Wizards of the Coast. Liliana Vess art courtesy Xoaba. Merciless Eviction art courtesy Richard Wright.
It’s a question I’m asking myself on a daily basis. Months after so many people made up their minds that the answer was a resounding ‘NO’, I’m still asking it. I lose sleep over it. I wake up with my guts in knots thinking about it. I find myself disengaged from the world around me, trying my best to lose myself in work, and distracting myself with media and gaming to avoid the question. But I keep coming back to it.
I want to believe that I am. I want to believe that just by asking the question, seriously pondering it, at least shows a glimmer of hope that it might be true. It’s a spark, the embryo of a flame, and if I can hold on to it, nurture it, stoke it with the right questions and breathe life into it gently, it will grow, and maybe shine a light that will show my true Self, even to those who made up their minds.
People can be wrong. I have been wrong. I’m trying to make it right, as much as I can, without imposing myself or pushing for unwanted direct contact or making people uncomfortable. I’m trading my discomfort for the comfort of others. The way I’ve always tried to do, even if it’s proven unhealthy for me. My brain’s wired for that behavior, and rewiring it has proven very, very difficult.
How could I ever put myself over others?
That’s the question this line of thought brings to mind. In moments of weakness, of hypomania, of knee-jerk reactions, I know I can behave rashly, even put what I want or feel above what others want or feel. But how can that be, when the other 99% of my life is spent worrying myself literally sick over what others think and feel? How is that I can, and have, lost my grip on my empathy? Is there a way for me to prioritize myself, my health, my well-being, in such a way that such an awful thing never, ever happens again?
I’m scared. I’m scared of a lot of things. Running out of time, losing what little I have left, failing and falling again to the point I don’t see a way out, with no strength left to save myself.
I’m scared I’ll never fully recover.
I’m scared I’ll lose my way again, in spite of the progress I’ve already made in the Work.
I’m scared that, in trying to prioritize myself, in convincing myself that yes, I am in fact a good man, I’ll get too caught up in my positivity and hype, to the point that my privilege and intelligence and empathy become things I exploit; I’m scared I will truly, thoroughly become something I loathe, that I would never, ever choose to be.
I know people exist who feel no guilt or remorse for the choices they make. The people who twist the facts to fit their own narratives. The people who never check their perceptions against a sequence of events or the proven nature of the people around them. The people who are so wrapped up in themselves they give nary a thought to the feelings or well-being of others. Their only goal is self-advancement; their primary concern is how far they can propel themselves above others. They leave reputations, relationships, communities, even bodies burning in their wake, and they are so myopically focused on their own goals they do not smell the rancid smoke for which they are responsible. And I’m scared of becoming one of them, rather than merely being accused of being one of them.
I’m scared that no matter how ‘better’ I get, it won’t be ‘good enough’. It won’t be proof enough that I’m not who they have said I am, who they may still believe me to be.
Why do the opinions of others matter?
Being honest about my role in the discomfort of others has been taken as implicit confession of guilt towards simplistic accusations. Maintaining distance and holding space has been seen as ‘ghosting’ or disposing of people I still consider important to me. Expounding upon my moments of crisis have been called ‘manipulation’ and ‘attention-seeking’. Asking for help is seen as weakness, and an excuse to scapegoat me, gaslight me, and kick me while I’m down. Openly seeking discussion about my thought processes and unresolved guilt, and fighting the stigma of my bipolar disorder, are categorized as trying to weasel out of taking responsibility for my actions. Why do I care about what people like that think?
Anybody who knows me, who has taken the time to engage with my Self, knows all of that is bullshit. Some who have made efforts in the past to forge a friendship with me that goes beyond public perception have fallen in with the toxic thinking that fueled the ways I’ve been used and abused. Even as some write me off, I struggle to understand them, to imagine them complexly, to comprehend their motivations. Some said what they said to further their own agendas, some reacted out of triggered disgust, and others merely disengaged to avoid dwelling on painful or problematic subjects. Why do I still hold space for them?
It’s been asked of me by people who have shown they truly care about me. True empathy has been expressed by those still connected with me who’ve seen the evidence of the Work but have also been privy to me asking these questions, struggling with these concerns, ruminating over these opinions. Why do I devote any firing of synapses to people who have shown me how little I actually matter? Why do these phantoms take up any space in my head or my heart? Why can’t I just write them off, let them go, move on with my life?
“I know it’s easier said than done” tends to follow those questions, and I know how true that is. Anybody acquainted with the grief that comes with the loss of a close family member or friend knows that it’s not a once-and-done obstacle that you just ‘get over’ and you’re finished, congrats, here’s a medal. It’s cyclical. It comes and it goes. You miss people, you miss them every day, sometimes just in the back of your mind, sometimes like a vice grip on your heart leaving you unable to move. January is particularly hard for me because of grief like that. For me, for a couple of people, the grief is worse because I know they’re still alive. They’re still out in the world. I know they’re hurting. I know they’re dealing with pain, loss, and questions that I understand, that I experience myself, that I might, just maybe, be able to help with.
But I don’t know if I can. I err on the side of caution. And it breaks my heart all over again.
Even if I felt I could, would I? Or would I keep my distance because I’m too scared of fucking it up again and causing more pain and who knows if they’d be open to that sort of interaction anyway?
Should I even be writing this here?
Even now I’m questioning my motivation for putting this out into view of the public. All of this is rooted in my struggle (and occasional inability) to cope with everything that’s atypical of my neurological system. Bipolar disorder, PTSD, social anxiety, the massive guilt complex — it’s no more ‘normal’ than the political situation in our world today. I’m on medication; I’m in touch with professionals; I’m studying meditation, neurological solutions, psychology and everything else that makes up the Work. Writing is a part of it — it’s a part of me — and a contribution I can make towards both my well-being and awareness that helps the well-being of others is to fight the stigma by talking about it.
I know that a lot of this stuff can or would make people uncomfortable if they bothered to read it. Hell, writing it makes me uncomfortable to the point I’ve put off writing it, even longhand in a journal, to say nothing of on this silly blog. Causing discomfort in people in general, especially people I care about — even those who might have stopped caring about me some time ago — falls squarely in the category of ‘shit I don’t want to do.’ For all I know, all of this claptrap about the Work and how I feel and what I’m dealing with may get extrapolated and twisted around into ‘yet another bid for attention’ and thrown into the mental garbage along with the person so many people decided I was, without bringing things directly to me or imagining me complexly. This might challenge those perceptions, which will make people uncomfortable, and much like I do with my guts in asking these questions, they’ll twist themselves around to avoid that discomfort and maintain the illusion that they know exactly what happened and exactly who this or that person was and exactly what the facts are despite not having all of them.
But I also know that without discomfort, there is no growth. And as much as I want to, as deep as I have looked within myself, I have struggled and failed to find the answers for the questions I’m asking. And I have to keep asking questions, deep ones, uncomfortable ones, if I ever want to untangle those knots, heal these wounds, kindle that beacon, progress in this Work. Which brings me to the last one.
Am I asking the right questions?
Right or wrong, for better and for worse, I’m going to be struggling to find the answers for a long, long time.
