(no subject)
Hello, old friend.
And immediately tears.
The few times over the past couple of years that I sat down to post, LJ has wanted me to change my password via my old email account, and I didn't have the willpower to hack my way in. Maybe it's desperation, isolation, or a removal from my own sense of self, but the illusion of writing to a long-standing silent pen pal is a unique comfort in this moment. I guess this is why so many people choose to talk to god.
I feel so lost.
I chose to become someone else.
I don't regret it, but the exchange of so many of my unreasonable and/or chaotic traits for "healthier" ones has left me feeling artless and hollow. I feel like I've honed a precision in my mind: I am a scientist. I literally am a scientist. It blows my mind to say it and to know that it's true. I wanted, I chose, I chased, I did. I knew that it would make me into someone else, and here I am.
Still the same bones and brain and heart a-pumping, but whose eyes are these?
The process of growing up, of becoming, is messy. I feel like every choice we make is a gamble: We imagine the way something could turn out, and if the imagining is pretty enough, we place our bets and see what spits out the other end. It's never what we expected, but we continue to play, because even choosing not to play is a bet placed.
There is a hypothetical creature known as Pierre-Simon Laplace's Demon. This demon has the ability to know the exact location and momentum of every atom in the entire universe, and by this knowledge can theoretically predict both the past and future outcomes of anything through a series of calculations. To Laplace, all outcomes can be determined when given enough data and processing power, and thus the gamble can be removed.
I wonder if such a determinism could exist, or if the theory ignores the unpredictable magic that occurs when the atoms synchronize and gain consciousness.
------------------
I have experienced countless heartbreaks since I last posted. I lost both of my grandparents. Covid has stolen more or less two years of life from everyone, not to speak of the psychological toll it's taken. I'm different. We're different. Our society and the way we interact are all different now. It's like the world just shut itself down and we have no idea how to reboot. I'm lost.
I get a second row seat to tangible consequences in the hospital. Some days I wish I'd chosen something else as a career. It's a good one, with a real impact. I'm happier on days when I go to work than on days when I don't, although I'm not sure whether that's a reflection of my work or the state of my life. On the other hand, part of me never wants to go back. We are understaffed and drowning. The pressure is massive. The consequences are real. A hospital is the seat of where people go when they are suffering, and I've made the choice to stick myself right into the thick of it to try and make a difference. To build a career. To try and escape my obsolescence, my meaninglessness, my depression. To run away from emptiness, right into the arms of true loss.
I finally got in touch with a doctor to see about whether I should medically treat my depression and anxiety. They should call me back in the next couple of days to set up as a new patient and hopefully schedule an appointment. I'm dreading the process as much as I'm looking forward to potential relief.
Part of me is afraid that I'll always be like this: Running from bad instead of running towards good. Scrambled thoughts, misguided intellect, poor and biased decision making, an inability to know my own self well enough to be my own guide. Switching and swinging wildly between extremes in efforts to compensate for one thing or another.
Scratch all that, I'm afraid that the lens with which I see myself will always be too skewed to see the truth, or to believe it when I do see. I want to see clearly, but I have next to no faith in my ability to do so. Everything is tinted through the filter of fickle emotion, and I'm afraid that I will always in one way or another be blind. I second guess every decision that I make, because I never end up where I imagined I would go. I don't trust my senses. I want to be reasonable. I'm soon to be 32, and I haven't even figured out how to be happy, or what it is that I really want.
At some point my life will end, and there will be no tidy resolution.
Devin and I are in the process of splitting up. Another decision that I am second guessing. It seems to be the right step for now: It's spurring a lot of reflection, reassessment, recalibration. I've been codependent and put more on him than was healthy or deserved. (I know I can't see clearly right now.) Part of my heart wants to keep his solidarity, his steadfastness, his simple rationality. He's been such a comfort to me, and I feel like I may have taken his love of me for granted. We've built a small family and a home for each other. There's no use getting caught up in the past on things I could've done differently: What's done is done. He isn't home right now, and the silence is peaceful. All the words in my head are dumped out on a page, and maybe sitting here in the quiet isn't so bad.
I wanted a rational relationship, and I've had one. He's an incredibly patient man. Very different from me: At times during our relationship I've felt as though he were still a stranger. And it's funny, that I feel as though I know him better now that we're apart than I did when we were together. I've given him space and am attempting to embrace my independence. He's given me real investment in our conversations. He looked me in the eyes as he was leaving earlier, and I felt like I was speaking to the man he really is. Maybe I'm only just now seeing in the losing. If we didn't split, would things be different? I know that I can't see it clearly, and that there may never be an answer.
All that there is for me right now is to take the person that I am today, and go on. There is no going backward. The stories we cling to as pieces of our identity can control us as much as they define us, so why not let them go? All of the limiting adjectives in the world won't stop the river from running.
And immediately tears.
The few times over the past couple of years that I sat down to post, LJ has wanted me to change my password via my old email account, and I didn't have the willpower to hack my way in. Maybe it's desperation, isolation, or a removal from my own sense of self, but the illusion of writing to a long-standing silent pen pal is a unique comfort in this moment. I guess this is why so many people choose to talk to god.
I feel so lost.
I chose to become someone else.
I don't regret it, but the exchange of so many of my unreasonable and/or chaotic traits for "healthier" ones has left me feeling artless and hollow. I feel like I've honed a precision in my mind: I am a scientist. I literally am a scientist. It blows my mind to say it and to know that it's true. I wanted, I chose, I chased, I did. I knew that it would make me into someone else, and here I am.
Still the same bones and brain and heart a-pumping, but whose eyes are these?
The process of growing up, of becoming, is messy. I feel like every choice we make is a gamble: We imagine the way something could turn out, and if the imagining is pretty enough, we place our bets and see what spits out the other end. It's never what we expected, but we continue to play, because even choosing not to play is a bet placed.
There is a hypothetical creature known as Pierre-Simon Laplace's Demon. This demon has the ability to know the exact location and momentum of every atom in the entire universe, and by this knowledge can theoretically predict both the past and future outcomes of anything through a series of calculations. To Laplace, all outcomes can be determined when given enough data and processing power, and thus the gamble can be removed.
I wonder if such a determinism could exist, or if the theory ignores the unpredictable magic that occurs when the atoms synchronize and gain consciousness.
------------------
I have experienced countless heartbreaks since I last posted. I lost both of my grandparents. Covid has stolen more or less two years of life from everyone, not to speak of the psychological toll it's taken. I'm different. We're different. Our society and the way we interact are all different now. It's like the world just shut itself down and we have no idea how to reboot. I'm lost.
I get a second row seat to tangible consequences in the hospital. Some days I wish I'd chosen something else as a career. It's a good one, with a real impact. I'm happier on days when I go to work than on days when I don't, although I'm not sure whether that's a reflection of my work or the state of my life. On the other hand, part of me never wants to go back. We are understaffed and drowning. The pressure is massive. The consequences are real. A hospital is the seat of where people go when they are suffering, and I've made the choice to stick myself right into the thick of it to try and make a difference. To build a career. To try and escape my obsolescence, my meaninglessness, my depression. To run away from emptiness, right into the arms of true loss.
I finally got in touch with a doctor to see about whether I should medically treat my depression and anxiety. They should call me back in the next couple of days to set up as a new patient and hopefully schedule an appointment. I'm dreading the process as much as I'm looking forward to potential relief.
Part of me is afraid that I'll always be like this: Running from bad instead of running towards good. Scrambled thoughts, misguided intellect, poor and biased decision making, an inability to know my own self well enough to be my own guide. Switching and swinging wildly between extremes in efforts to compensate for one thing or another.
Scratch all that, I'm afraid that the lens with which I see myself will always be too skewed to see the truth, or to believe it when I do see. I want to see clearly, but I have next to no faith in my ability to do so. Everything is tinted through the filter of fickle emotion, and I'm afraid that I will always in one way or another be blind. I second guess every decision that I make, because I never end up where I imagined I would go. I don't trust my senses. I want to be reasonable. I'm soon to be 32, and I haven't even figured out how to be happy, or what it is that I really want.
At some point my life will end, and there will be no tidy resolution.
Devin and I are in the process of splitting up. Another decision that I am second guessing. It seems to be the right step for now: It's spurring a lot of reflection, reassessment, recalibration. I've been codependent and put more on him than was healthy or deserved. (I know I can't see clearly right now.) Part of my heart wants to keep his solidarity, his steadfastness, his simple rationality. He's been such a comfort to me, and I feel like I may have taken his love of me for granted. We've built a small family and a home for each other. There's no use getting caught up in the past on things I could've done differently: What's done is done. He isn't home right now, and the silence is peaceful. All the words in my head are dumped out on a page, and maybe sitting here in the quiet isn't so bad.
I wanted a rational relationship, and I've had one. He's an incredibly patient man. Very different from me: At times during our relationship I've felt as though he were still a stranger. And it's funny, that I feel as though I know him better now that we're apart than I did when we were together. I've given him space and am attempting to embrace my independence. He's given me real investment in our conversations. He looked me in the eyes as he was leaving earlier, and I felt like I was speaking to the man he really is. Maybe I'm only just now seeing in the losing. If we didn't split, would things be different? I know that I can't see it clearly, and that there may never be an answer.
All that there is for me right now is to take the person that I am today, and go on. There is no going backward. The stories we cling to as pieces of our identity can control us as much as they define us, so why not let them go? All of the limiting adjectives in the world won't stop the river from running.