Pinned
Good Times
(reposted from my non-monetized Substack. feel free to join me over there.)
The biggest difference between how I wrote personal essays and how I write journal entries is that I write essays with answers already in mind.
When I journal, I don't even have a question yet, much less an answer. I have feelings. Emotions that I need to process. I don't tend to process emotions quickly, or at all, unless I write them into hard containers: boxes made of words, walls of sentences.
I am mostly driven to write about my distress. When I'm happy, I have better things to do. A lot of my writing is motivated by sheer self-preservation.
This blog is supposed to be a journal. I am supposed to be letting myself off the hook and not trying to write from certainty here. But every time I open this document of blog entries, I find myself trying to come up with things to say that will be useful to my reader. Essay style. As if I had answers.
Force of habit, I guess.
I happen to believe despair is always a lie. But it's also a physical condition that affects the body. Action can take the edge off. So can the love of others.
Lately, I feel very far away from the love of my people. I remind myself this is only geographically true.
I have been very active, to compensate.
Despair keeps rattling the doors of my thoughts.
On Saturday, I went to the in-person training to qualify for my 2-year CPR certification. I got yet another trauma medicine certificate from a different online training provider. I joined a gym and scheduled a session with a trainer. I scheduled a bataireacht lesson. I'm going to my self defense class tonight. I'm working on my novel. I'm doing my actual job.
The people I care for in a professional capacity watch Fox News all day, every day. The TV stays on by default. I don't think they really pay attention to it. But I can't help seeing and hearing it. It feels like I have to spend ten minutes processing my rage for every 30 seconds of exposure. When I go back to my room, Democratic politicians are pummeling my inbox, unable to communicate about the Omnishambles without soliciting donations, unable to acknowledge or account for their own uselessness.
I am not in distress because of politics or the DNC or Fox News or the Omnishambles. The architecture of my nervous system is such that distress will find me from time to time no matter what happens to be going on in the world. I can't help my reaction to the sights and sounds of the Republican extinction burst, in all its nasty disregard for truth and reality. But my feelings come from me. I have to remind myself of this a lot. My emotional condition is not the inevitable result of factors outside my control. There is nothing wrong with me yet. Dread will not protect me. A little anxiety is good for getting yourself up off the couch to do useful things. Past that point, anxiety ceases to promote survival and should be regarded, as Tolkien said, as a weapon of the enemy.
I am already doing things. I tell my anxiety it needs to chill.
My bataireacht coach told me a story back in December (he gave me permission to share). His ancestors appeared to him in a dream. He asked for advice about the future and the coming troubles, and they told him: "You're going to have a good time." My coach started trying to explain: no, you don't understand, things are getting really bad here. Their response: "No, we understand, and we agree, things are very bad. But you are going to have a good time."
I am going to die. Maybe sooner, maybe later. The timing will probably not be up to me. Preserving my happiness until then doesn't require me to be in denial. I lean on the perspective I gained from surviving homelessness. Happiness isn't things. Security isn't things. The feeling of safety is not the condition of safety. Home is people and relationships. We can wade into the troubled water and let ourselves be changed, instead of drowning.
These feelings take a lot of processing. There isnโt any final resolution, only continuing motion.