How I Think
Good evening, world. And Merry Christmas. I just had a conversation, about two hours ago though, with my sister. There are days I admire her for how much work she has accomplished, and how hard she has had to struggle to get here. I am getting the feeling, however, that she is angry at me because I can leave. Because I can walk away. And because I have. Because I've left Vermont, and this house, mostly behind. I did it, at the time, to accomplish my education. Now, my undergraduate work is done... and I don't want to stay here. It is not that this is not home, because it is... But it is because I do not belong in this home anymore. I belonged here when I was a child, but I am not a child. My sister can't leave. She's blind. And she hates me because I can.
I used to hate her because everyone paid more attention to her. I got over that years ago. But she still hates me because I can leave. And because I have.
I am mad. I know this. I accept this. It is part of what I am. I am off-kilter, given to staring at the world in manners that make most moral and ethical people stop and look at me and wonder. Because I seem like such a nice person, but I approach the world in a manner that, according to my sister, would sooner suit a professional killer than a teacher and artist. And I wonder if she is right. If I am wrong. And if I can afford to live the way she thinks is right, or if I am right, and living like that would kill me. I have an illness, emotional imbalances that almost killed me. That destroyed everyone I loved. That destroyed something I cherished, because I was just too damn sick to think clearly enough to act responsibly. To act sanely. And I lost something dear to me that I can never and will never get back. And now, I look at the world through those eyes. Through the eyes that sees everything, even itself, as evanescent as sunlight on a cloudy day.
We all pass, and we all taste eternity in our own time. But the world is larger than us. I wanted the world to stop for me, and it didn't. And then, I wanted to die. And then, I couldn't even want that anymore. I had nothing. I was hollow. And in that moment, I saw the eternal. And it was beautiful, and so much bigger than me. So much grander. And I knew on that day that everything passes in time, and that is the way of things. Pain is not worth holding on to. Suffering is holding onto pain, and why suffer? Why hold onto the pain? It's missing the point. The point is to hold onto the joy. Onto the happiness. That is what matters in this brief life, the joy and happiness. Pain just tells us something is wrong. To look, and find out why. That's it. Why choose to suffer? Physical suffering can be avoided at times, but it is somewhat inevitable. It can be conquered with will, perhaps, but physical suffering is unavoidable in life. It's part of it. Why choose to emotionally suffer?
That's my question. I choose not to suffer. I choose to not indulge in something that will make me suffer, unavoidably. That something? Attachment. Holding on. The concept of ownership. I love my friends because they make this world better for me, and I hope they love me for the same reason, not because of some privilege of ownership. I tend to my pets because they need me to feed them, not because they are mine, and they choose to show me affection because it makes them happy too. Why choose attachment? Sure, it seems natural until one tries to just not get attached. It takes so much effort, but I think it is more natural than getting attached. It's healthier, if nothing else. Look at a child. Take their toy away, and they will wail and scream until it is brought back to them. Why? Why choose to act like a child? Am I truly mad, truly... degenerate, as my sister called me, to think that choosing not to be attached is more mature? More like an adult?
Would I be attached to a child? Yes. Should I? I'm not sure. But I know it would be there. I suppose I'm not strong enough to love that much without attachment on some level... But I don't love more because of that attachment. At least, I can't believe that I do.
I want to believe that a human being is capable, truly capable of experiencing joy and happiness without needing some kind of psychological drug, something that just feels like a crutch supporting it. This sense of entitled ownership... sickens me.
And for this, I am called cold. Callous. Degenerate. Weak. Is it weak to understand that suffering is not a good thing? Yes, I've done bad things in my life. I admit this. But I have felt pain for them, and I have done everything in my power to see that they are fixed, rather than just suffer over them. Suffering seems too much like weakness to me. Not strength.
Maybe I'm just saying that because I want to think myself strong. And in the end, I don't know. I know fighting attachment kept me from suffering the same blow that broke me once. It let me deal with pain, and heal from it faster. I chose not to suffer, because it would help no one. Happiness, instead, helps everyone.
My sister claims that I am angry with her. My sister still holds things I did when I was eight against me. I don't hold the things she did to me against her. Like throw a cat on my face when I was eight. Like lie to me for two years. Like pretty much ignoring me for most of my childhood. For always being the one who everyone paid attention to. Do these hurt? They did. Now? They sting, but I smile. Because I know my life is richer having had my sister in it. I would not be who I am today without her.
And when I give her honesty, because, in the end, that is one of the things I have come to truly, truly value (thank you, Carrie, for that lesson), I wish she could see it was out of the fact I do love her. I just don't show it in the way... anyone does. I'm weird. I'm mad. I'm sick. I show my love by being unequivocably honest, and by caring about you no matter what. By forgiving no matter what.
I don't hold grudges. Life is simply too short to spend it being miserable. And I am so filled with joy to know that I have friends out there who feel the same. Who show me love by giving me exactly what I give them. By being honest. By caring no matter what. And by forgiving me, because I am always in need of forgiveness.
I do not think attachment is healthy. Maybe a little can be healthy for some people, the Aristotelean Golden Mean. But I am not those people. I am sick. And I have to fight attachment.
Because outside the moment, all I know in life is that it is passing me by, and I am losing someone and something I care about every second of the day. We're all dying, but we're all living at the same time. I just can see both. And always do.
I hope, in the end, that I am still a person worth existing. Even with my sickness.
Anyone who read this far, thank you. Whomever you are, thank you. Here's the blood on the page, crying out 'Am I good enough?'. Here's the voice in the night, crying out to a God we pray is listening. Once, this would have been the purview of poetry or journals. Now, it's a public spectacle. Bemusing, that.
The internet is part of my life. I am happy with that. So thank you, dear reader, wherever you are, for reading this. Thank you for listening.
Merry Christmas.