Lately I am trying to have more compassion for myself, but it has been a struggle. I tell myself just like I wouldn’t expect someone without a leg to run a marathon, I shouldn’t expect myself to function like a normal human being because my brain is dysfunctional.
I can’t tell how much of my mental state is inherent in me, and how much of it is impacted by the current conditions of the world. We’re entering year 5 of the pandemic but most of the world is denying that it exists, every day there is incredible violence and war, the weather never ceases to remind us that climate change is happening, and society is relentlessly judgemental. Is it truly a sign of health to be able to ignore everything that is going on and just go about as though everything is dandy and fine?
I try to imagine myself living in an imaginary world where people actually care about each other, where a pandemic like this would never drag on for five years because everyone would just agree to do the right thing for each other. A world where I would not feel insane for caring about my health or other people’s health. Or get gaslighted into feeling like I’m a hypochondriac when I know my anxieties are fully backed up by the research. Would I still feel the way I do now?
I think a lot of my feelings comes from my belief that this world is hostile, though it pretends otherwise. That is the messed up thing: because perhaps it would be better if it was outright hostile.
Every day I wake up I feel like something is wrong with me. It is like I don’t belong here. Some people have body dysmorphia, I have an existence dysmorphia. I feel like most days I am just pretending to be a human being – half the time it is because I love my partner and I don’t want to be a drag. Without her, would I simply let myself rot?
I have such a complicated relationship with life. If I didn’t care about it I guess I wouldn’t even be writing here, and I wouldn’t be so obsessive about documenting my memories. Yet I struggle. I can’t tell whether is it my brain that is uncooperative or I am just truly disinterested.
I feel like the only way I can cope with this is to continue to pretend to be a human being, to go through the motions of life, to intellectually participate. Maybe I can fake it till I make it, or maybe through the pretension I can find the sort of joy that comes from the immersion of acting in a play, or it is through travelling the lengths and widths of this void that I can find my way?
I guess I am somewhat still hopeful for a positive outcome, but maybe this is just my relationship to life. After reading a ton of autobiographies I know I am not the only person in history having this tenuous relationship with life. If this is my lot then perhaps I have to figure out how can I best cope with it instead of wishing I can be another person or have another brain.