:: worlds in words ::

We are all two people, if not more than that.  We’re comprised of personas.  There is no simple singular identity that comprehensively defines a person – or so I believe.  Maybe that’s only because I live such a fragmented life.  The person that you are with your parents is most likely not the same person that you are with your best friend, which is also probably different from the person you are at work.

I’m way the fuck out to lunch when it comes to identity.  Depending on who you talk to, I could be described as a die-hard Romantic or a completely unemotional robot Vulcan.  Some will say that I work myself to death and never accept mediocrity; others will testify under oath that I am one seriously lazy son of a bitch who wouldn’t get his ass up to put himself out if he were on fire.  There are so many conflicts and contradictions that it would be easier to say I am actually multiple people.

I think that most of us never really evaluate who we are – what that means, of experience versus evaluation, the cognizant versus the perceived.

I don’t subscribe to a notion of normality.  That happy family, everyone loving, everyone working out their differences, all in relatively perfect physical and mental health.  It’s a crock of shit.  You know what else is a crock of shit?  The world.  I don’t mean that in a punk-rock, fuck-the-man kind of way.  I mean to say, everyone’s a son of a bitch in one way or another.  And everyone, absolutely everyone, is screwed up.

What we’re interested in, then, is acceptable deviation for the preservation of society.  What is acceptable behavior, acceptable thought, acceptable personality – they’re in the best interests of keeping a functional world.

Are we happiest when we conform to what stabilizes society?  Or when we are true to our selves, the core of who we are?

Obviously, there are limits.  If happiness for you is going on a mass-murdering spree, then well, maybe that’s not the best idea.  But maybe if happiness for you is just being an arrogant, unbearable asshole, then that’s not so bad.  Or so I think, maybe because I enjoy being an arrogant and unbearable asshole far more than mass murder.

Nobody likes having to change themselves.  It makes them feel judged.  Psychologists will tout their objectivity and professional detachment (mine included, if you can’t tell that I’m a weekly fixture at the mental health department), but what human being has objectivity?  The very claim to objectivity, in my mind, necessarily says to me that you are either ignorant or a flat-out liar.  Anyone who has to defend themselves with a laughable phrase like that – “I’m not ignorant!” – is what they claim they’re not.

I’m just kind of jumping all over the place here.  I’ve been railing against this thing that is my life, this fragmented existence where I put on a different hat for each role I play.  A soldier, a son, a friend, a husband, a father.  They tell me that I can’t do that, that I can’t have this schism of being.  That I have to be one person, continuous and congruous.

Maybe I’m just being petulant.  But you know what?  I embrace my flawed mind.  I embrace my inconsolable rage and my sarcasm.  I honestly don’t care that some people think I’m an asshole, because the difference for me is that everyone agrees that I get shit done right.  After I’m done telling you how stupid your plan is and everything that will go wrong with it, I’ll tell you how to fix it and get things moving properly.  I’m not a jerk just for the sake of it.  I accomplish something with it in the end.

Justification, excuses, sure.  Do I enjoy ripping into people?  Sure.  And when people are just plain ignorant and flaunting it, thinking they’re King Shit, boy do I love to kneecap them with my verbal blackjack and grind their face into the dust.  Healthy?  Probably not.  Good social conditioning?  Not in any sense of the term.  But is it who I am?  To the core.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not riding the Asshole-mobile 24/7.  In fact I like to think that I’m a pretty nice guy most of the time.  But there’s a viciousness that resides in my mind, pacing back and forth with listlessness, and once in a while I’ll throw open the cage door and let it fly.

So, you know, probably for the best that I’m seeing a psychologist.  That’s the least of my worries anyhow, but the most visible.  But somewhere along the line, I really gotta ask: am I doing this for myself, because I really believe that there is something wrong with me (or that there is something strongly deviant enough from the acceptable societal norm that it disrupts my function) or because of external factors?

I think I’m probably the worst kind of human being I can be without being a murdering, psychotic bastard.  I can be mostly selfish, unrestrained, without much of a conscience, and I’m told that my lack of emotional connection gives me an inability to empathize with others even though I can sympathize with them from a rational standpoint.

I don’t have anything against people changing themselves.  I think that many people change for the better and that people can change and overcome themselves.  But I also believe that the core of a person remains regardless of smaller changes in the periphery of their identity.  And sometimes I feel like I’m being asked to essentially swap out myself for someone else altogether.

And I stop and think, this ain’t right.  I am who I am.  And I will always be who I am, to one degree or another.  I don’t think that I’ll magically and radically change in the next five, ten years.  I think I’ll still be (in the hypothetical words of some) a cold, calculating, rational robot-man.  Is that such a bad thing?  Fuck, I still think puppies are cute, so I can’t be that far at a loss for not being overly emotional.

At some level, I’m afraid to be able to make the change.  Something inside of me rebels against it and tells me that if I change that much, if I completely become a different person, then I will also lose the good things in me, few as they may be.  But those few good things I treasure above all else.  They are what make my flaws, in my eyes, worth it.

When asked why he became a doctor, Gregory House replies:

When I was 14 my father was stationed in Japan. I went rock climbing with this kid from school. He fell, got injured and I had to bring him to the hospital. We came in through the wrong entrance and passed this guy in the hall. It was a janitor.

My friend came down with an infection and the doctors didn’t know what to do. So they brought in the janitor. He was a doctor. And a Buraku. One of Japan’s untouchables. His ancestors had been slaughterers, grave diggers. And this guy, he knew that he wasn’t accepted by the staff, he didn’t even try. He didn’t dress well. He didn’t pretend to be one of them.

The people that ran that place, they didn’t think that he had anything they wanted. Except when they needed him. Because he was right. Which meant that nothing else mattered. And they had to listen to him.

Obviously, House is fictional and depicted as a superhuman genius.  I’m not saying I approach that.  But the rationale behind it is the same.  I don’t care what others think of me or say about me, because when shit goes down, I get to the solution.  Whether it’s at work, amongst friends, or something else.

This was just one huge self-serving post, I guess.  Just needed to write out some stuff that was in my brain.  I’m sure I’ll come out with some actual posts soon.