ought

I don't honestly know the use of trying, except for the lack of alternatives which are actually alternatives, and the chance of helping someone whose heart hasn't given up.

In the past day or so my thoughts have hovered around the fact that my reason for existence seems to be a combination of indulging a handful of what I think are relatively modest desires, an essential clinging to immodest and improbable dreams, and a sense of obligation to be of use, to relieve suffering in compensation for that which I inevitably cause, a moral compulsion which I am unable to kill despite a long-lived resentment for those things that have been done to me for which no apology or comfort is ever likely to come. I wish I could kill it, or else find a way to sacrifice the desires instead, as well as the one or two dreams which make drastic life choices less appealing because of what doors they might close. I cannot shake the burden of what seems to be conscience, and I don't know exactly what to do with it, either. No amount of reasoning successfully convinces me that I ought to do anything other than everything I can, though the demands of making a living and the wealth of frivolous distractions my comparatively privileged life provides do a good job of muffling the voice of the moral imperative.

When I have my own attention, though, and distractions have temporarily failed, I know clearly that I do want to answer that voice with an unequivocal yes. The troubling question is whether I have anything of value to offer- how to decide what to offer- and how to educate myself so that neither it nor I am wasted. I don't know how to make that determination yet.

It's so late, and I've lost an hour more than usual. Would write more, but must go to bed in order not to guarantee myself a foul mood and a headache to take to work.

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Impulses

This came into my head all at once the other night, and its particularly stilted language, which I have left unedited, is a consequence of the fact that I could barely write quickly enough to round out the idea on paper.


The thing that I am finding, and coming to recognize as a comprehensive truth in the way I process the world, is that I have no true comprehension of the idea of "enough". While it is possible to become temporarily sickened of a thing, I do not know satiety in any form, and once my mind has identified a thing as good and has formed a desire for it, it wil not die until something happens to prove the thing not worthy of desiring. So while my mind considers a thing good, it will always crave it, and wish to have it to excess. It seems to be this way for every sort of object or feeling I experience. There are the obvious troubles such as a ceaseless craving for food or liquor- and indeed I am never not hungry or not desirous of drink, in my mind at least, however distended my stomach or throbbing my head. The only time I feel the slightest relief from the anxiety that is bound up in the hunger is when I have far more of a thing than I need. Consuming a pint of ice cream, for example, is not nearly so reassuring as having a freezer full of untouched ice cream. My actual capacity for consumption is fairly small, but it increases in inverse proportion to the availability of what I would consume. So if I try to obtain and consume a little bit of a thing at a time, I will always want more and more of it, and consequently obtain and consume more than if I had an endless quantity readily available to me, and did not have to worry that the next might be the last.
I am always thinking of the time when the things I desire will be ended or exhausted. I am haunted by the idea that at the end of my own life, nothing will have been enough. The eventual loss of those I love is difficult to contemplate for this reason alone- how can my memories of them, when my memory is little better than a broken basket for containing the things I would have it hold, how can they possibly begin to comfort me for the fact that I can have no more? I have had my family for twenty-six years, and if it were ten times that, I do not know if I could love them enough. I see no way of being reconciled to that, and know I have no choice anyway. I cannot live long enough for all the things I want to do, and feel certain of amounting to far less than I have been given, whenever my final accounting comes. Although I do not expect to have to pay for it once I am gone, I am possessed by sadness at the recurring thought that someone else might, or that they might have less repayment than they deserve for their kindness to, or faith in me.

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A little more human

Very gradually, and in small but encouraging ways, my situation seems to be improving (though in others which I can't yet talk about, it is worse.) I can't claim that hard work has paid off, because I've done nothing new to account for it- and I can't pretend to have been particularly patient because most nights in the past several months I've gone to bed worn out by dull despair- but luck has decided in my favor more than usual lately, and it is a very welcome change. I need to find something to do in order to express my gratitude for it, and will when my schedule settles a little more.

The first way is a silly thing: I've been cast after all in the chorus of the show for which I auditioned last month, and will start rehearsals next week. The strange, instant camaraderie of being a part of a cast, usually linked together by nothing more than a common purpose and interest, has always provided me with a sense of being included that I have rarely felt elsewhere (and too often in more casual social situations, it has been clear that there was no place for me, or role to play, no matter how willing I was or qualified to fill it.) I have undoubtedly been fortunate enough in the past to work with some wonderful people who found it a pleasure to welcome me rather than a burden, and I can't expect this always to be the case. But from what I've heard of this group, I might have that chance again. It's been almost four years since Hamlet, my last show- and now that I write that, I can't believe it. How can I possibly have made the series of choices necessary to deprive me of one of the things I love most in the world for four years? Honestly, I don't know.

The second way is a small thing, almost a nothing, but of significance to me: a few words from the man I consider to be my closest friend, even though months frequently go by between communications. Three, almost four months of this most recent silence. I worry for him sometimes nearly as much as I care about him, and so hearing that he is alive, well enough, and remembers me from time to time is a comfort.

The third way is almost purely practical, and I probably shouldn't even be as happy about it as I am, except I can't help it. Part of me really was afraid I might not find a place to live, at least not one where I would feel safe, or one that wouldn't be so expensive as to send me deeper into debt. But the place I found is beautiful, and shockingly cheap considering the size and location. I'll do my real rejoicing when the papers are all signed, but I will have a key tomorrow and a place to sleep that isn't borrowed or resented.

Simple things, but enough to renew my sense of hope and restore me a bit. Especially needed now.

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Miles to go

In the past couple of days, I've slowly come to realize that to detach and uproot in order to begin the next phase of life elsewhere, while possible to do logically and productively, is not something I can yet do responsibly- I would not be able to afford it in all the ways that are important to me. Another year seems like a significant amount of time only because of the increase in my age, nothing more, and it actually seems as though the last twelve months have rushed by without making any real mark on me at all. Somewhat more diminished by disappointment, slightly more bitter, and rather more detached after a number of rejections. These aren't the sorts of things that permanently warp the spirit, provided, of course, that at some point, the slow tide flows the other way. I have no logical reason to keep hoping, given that the majority of happiness in my life has been due to luck, and not the results of my focus and effort. Things that would happen, I'm sure, whether I hoped they would or not. I have not in any way deserved them, and it is possible that I will never be in such a situation as to be considered to deserve anything better than what falls to me by chance. I understand that even if this is the case, I'll be better off than most people in general, and that it's only in comparison to those I know and those of whom I am typically aware that my life seems lacking. But comparisons of that kind are seldom logical, and so they can only hurt, never help.

The likelihood that I won't deserve whatever good might someday be in store for me does not excuse me from trying. Nor does it give me the right to escape. Now there are nights when I feel so desperate that I am essentially paralyzed by sensations of worthlessness and futility, and helpless to do anything more than cry until the sky lightens and takes away the choice of being or not as the imminent necessity of pulling together and continuing on overpowers through guilt and shame the question of "what for". If I left now, it would only be a more acceptable form of suicide in that nothing would be decisively accomplished except a change of scene. I have things that are best fixed here first, because I don't want to be burdened with them, wherever I do go.

So, this is another disappointment, in a way, but at least it's the result of a decision I made. I will be compensating myself for the delay in other ways. Letting myself have time to volunteer is one, perhaps the biggest... I'm not sure of the others yet, but nothing that depends upon the approval of others. I can't win that, so I have no reason not to do as I like within the bounds of my conscience.

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Home again?

Parents floored me the other night by spontaneously suggesting I move in with them, work fewer hours, and finish my last year of undergrad. I think my initial response was a completely involuntary spluttering of some version of "Are you insane?" though this was more out of surprise that they would choose to subject themselves to having me live with, and to some degree off, them again. Still haven't been able to process this proposal.

The only thing that comes to mind as a possibility as to why they would ever think it a good idea (apart from the normal parental urge to see my education finished and myself set up on a career path that fits their not too unreasonable impressions of what I should or at least could be doing with this portion of my life) is the possible arrival of a set of grandparents from across the country who would need care. For some reason, said grandparents get along with me pretty well when we're together, and having a third person around would certainly help take some of the load off of my parents. But I don't think this would have occurred to them consciously, so I'm left wondering. I certainly want to help them and my grandparents, so that would actually be a mark in favor of moving in.

Part of me thinks that this would be the most practical thing to do, and part of me is equally convinced that we would drive each other crazy in a very short amount of time. Good progress on that was made in the past, and I have no interest at all in picking up where we left off. Nor do I have any desire at this point to place myself in a situation that leaves me in their debt, or under an obligation to behave in any way towards them that I wouldn't otherwise. Help is inseparable from interference, and while I'm not sure that it shouldn't be, I don't want to come to depend upon anything that can be taken away on a whim. Being able to say no to them without suffering for it in any other way than experiencing the unpleasantness of having argued is incredibly important to me. When faced with the choice between expediency and autonomy, it's a little surprising to realize that I might actually pick the latter.

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One thing I'm feeling:

There isn't any answer.

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