Lately I’ve been struggling to express an idea. Or, rather I should say, I’ve been struggling to bring order to a number of ideas which are floating around in my head. I’ve been in a reflective mood lately. This is not always a positive thing, but I’m trying to bring something good out of this mess. So here is an attempt at working it out.
I’m known as a bit of an eccentric. I don’t mind the label, but I’m not exactly excited about it either. As a teenager I always thought individuality was the highest goal. I still think it’s important to be who you are, but as I’ve gotten older I’ve realized how being true to yourself is: A) impossible; B) an unworthy goal.
The reason for that it is impossible is that who anyone is at any given time is a fluid notion. All the universe is in constant motion. Things, and people, are constantly changing. Even at the most basic molecular level, the body is constantly using up resources and regenerating them at this instantaneous, unconscious and completely unnoticeable rate, so it is technically a truism that I am not who I was when I started to write even this very sentence.
Even though the substance of who I am is constantly changing, there remains some sense of permanent self. Although I am certainly not who I was when I was a baby, I am still somehow exactly who I was when I was a baby. Although it has been 27-years since I thought the thoughts that the child in my baby book is thinking, they are nevertheless my pictures. They were my thoughts. They can belong to no one else.
What I am getting at, is that I am constantly changing. Just as the baby in the photo album is me, the hunched over old lady who I have yet to become is also me. I can no more know the baby in the photo album than I can know the old lady who is yet to come to pass; yet each of these figures are me.
If I am to be true to myself, the question must be asked: to which me must I be true? I have simplified the concept by appealing to the extremes of age, but in truth there are millions of me. The me that is in my mother’s womb; the me on my first day of kindergarten; the me in my Marilyn Manson t-shirt; the me working in the church nursery; the me who has yet to have come to pass… These are greater than distinctions of role or maturation; these are essences of self which are contradictory and complimentary and utterly passing.
It may seem like a trivial point. But it’s an important distinction for me to make. The feelings that I am feeling as I write this have no greater importance than the feelings I felt as a small child. They carry no truer weight than the feelings I will feel tomorrow, or next year, or in sixty years.
To strive to be true to ones’ self is an impossible goal. Self is a fluid concept. If it were possible to perfectly achieve oneness with self in one instant, in the next instant that self would cease to be. It is a meaningless construct; it is as vain a motivation as trying to catch the wind.
The reason that being true to yourself is an unworthy goal is that it is inherently selfish. To seek after self is to put the self before others. To put ones own interests before the interests of others is to assume superiority, to assign inferiority. And yet, on what basis can we assume this superiority? We are all made of the same stuff.
So it is impossible and unworthy to be true to ones self. Assuming this, what other options do we have? It is equally impossible to be duplicitous to ones self. It is equally unworthy to assume inferiority; we are all still made of the same stuff.
We have little choice but to act in accordance with the moment. Whether this be to suit the individual need to or to assuage the needs of the community, we must act in accordance with ourselves as present beings informed by past selves and informing future selves.
Why does this matter? It matters because it strikes to the heart of the question of human motivation. What motivates human beings to continue to be? Why do I continue to live when existence becomes unbearably painful? Why do I voluntarily take on the sufferings of others? Why am I comforted by affection and so crushed by its absence?
There are many times that I question my own answers to these problems. There are moments when I would soon as not cease to be. There are other moments when life seems so full of joy that I can hardly contain the energy beating inside my chest. There are times when I lay on the couch, ignoring even basic physical
needs. Other times, I will push well past the point of exhaustion to do something, virtually anything, that has even a symbolic sort of meaning.
I wanted to write more specifically. Maybe I will soon, but for now my battery is ready to die and I am getting very tired. I will go to bed and maybe write some more tomorrow.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
On Medication.
I have been thinking a lot lately about what motivates my own behavior. I think of myself as being a fairly introspective person, but part of being treated for anxiety and depression is learning how to turn off some of the cyclical thinking pattern of doom that generally accompanies my thinking very deeply about anything in life.
I’ve been on anti-depressants of one sort of another for just over a year now. For the most part, I’ve found that they do help me. I’m not completely surprised that they do, of course. I do have a masters degree in Social Work, so I understand (at least a little) of what mental illness is all about. I had no doubt that I had a chemical imbalance in my brain, one most likely guided by the genetic pattern which has created this same imbalance in so many of my family members’ brains, and that more was needed than just some exercise and good old fashion sunshine.
At the same time, no one likes to admit that there’s something wrong with their brain. Tell someone they have diabetes and they will grieve, but eventually they will adjust. There is no shame in carting around the sort of pancreas which struggles to regulate the body’s supply of insulin. But there is inherent shame in being born with the sort of brain that just doesn’t seem capable of balancing the various chemicals that slosh around the body controlling mood and behavior.
I have done fairly well adjusting to the fact that I need this medication. There are moments when it’s embarrassing to me. Sometimes someone at church will make a comment, for example, something along the lines of: “Well, if people spent more time with Jesus instead of focusing on the world, they wouldn’t need all that medication to get through the day!” Well, maybe, but few of these same people, if afflicted by diabetes, would throw away their insulin pens and try to pray away their chemical imbalances.
I don’t mean to pick on the church, of course. There is a general societal misunderstanding about mental illness. A friend was recently complaining about a co-worker. He said: “She’s crazy! No seriously, she’s on like medication for it!” This was, of course, accompanied by the giant whooshing sound of his foot going straight into his mouth. “I didn’t mean it like that.” Well, yes and no, my friend! You didn’t mean to hurt my feelings, no; but, you did intend to clearly demarcate the normals from the crazies and, unfortunately, by virtue of needing medication I apparently end up in the latter camp of people who are less worthy.
Then, at other times, I’ve found myself peddling the wonders of medication to anyone who will listen. Like most people who find their lives very suddenly improved by something, I’ve found myself advertising it to people I never thought I would discuss such things with. No doubt, some of these people would do well to talk to their doctors. Some of these people, however, I barely even know. It isn’t the Social Worker in me that’s pushing medication. I think that it’s the part of me that wants to share how I am handling this disability I was born with. For reasons both selfless and selfish, I want it to be known that I am overcoming this disease and show others how I have won the battles that I have managed to win so far.
At the same time, I am well-aware of the limitations of medication. Medication does not solve any of life’s problems: it doesn’t tell you the meaning of life; it won’t convince you that your life is well worth living. Being on the wrong medication can actually give you a hard kick in the direction of deciding that it isn’t worth living at all. The wrong medication carries with it the additional misery of unpleasant side effects, both mental and physical, that may tip the balance for a person who is already so burdened that they feel they have no further strength to carry on.
On its best day, when you are on a well-suited medication at a proper dosage, you wake up feeling like what I imagine normal people feel like. Life is not without tension, but this tension seems manageable. You may not want to get out of bed, but this is because you’re tired and not because you feel you’re under siege. You may still lose your temper or have your feelings hurt, but the emotions are merely your emotions and you are not at their mercy. A disappointment is merely a disappointment and not potentially fatal tragedy. You can remember a time when you were happy; it doesn’t seem impossible to reach that state again.
In other words, medication can’t, and won’t, fix all of your problems for you. It can, however, help to level the playing field a little. You get the start the daily race where everyone else gets to start the race instead of several miles behind, with a ball and chain weighing down your feet.
Mental illness will be a lifelong struggle for me. The body tends to adjust to medication in ways that make them less efficacious over time. Thus, I now know that I will spend the rest of my life monitoring my moods. When a bad day turns into a bad week, and a bad week turns into a bad month, it may well be that I don’t need a vacation away from it all. I simply need to have my medication adjusted. Of course, sometimes a bad day is still a bad day and a bad week is still just a bad week. Being sensitive to these issues is part of my new awareness.
The good news is that I no longer have to be afraid of thinking. For much of my life too much deep thinking has generally left me feeling empty and helpless. This is not to say, of course, that I’m a shallow person. Rather than give up the deep thinking, I have generally sacrificed the happiness. I used to chalk it up to my sense of Stoicism: life isn’t supposed to be easy. Now I realize that every day living is also not supposed to resemble the Batan Death March.
This past week has been a difficult one. I am in the midst of a change of medication and my personal life has been, due to unrelated issues, completely chaotic. The good news is that these circumstances do not last forever. Tomorrow is another day, next week another week. Whatever the present state of darkness, it is only a matter of time before the sun rises again.
I’ve been on anti-depressants of one sort of another for just over a year now. For the most part, I’ve found that they do help me. I’m not completely surprised that they do, of course. I do have a masters degree in Social Work, so I understand (at least a little) of what mental illness is all about. I had no doubt that I had a chemical imbalance in my brain, one most likely guided by the genetic pattern which has created this same imbalance in so many of my family members’ brains, and that more was needed than just some exercise and good old fashion sunshine.
At the same time, no one likes to admit that there’s something wrong with their brain. Tell someone they have diabetes and they will grieve, but eventually they will adjust. There is no shame in carting around the sort of pancreas which struggles to regulate the body’s supply of insulin. But there is inherent shame in being born with the sort of brain that just doesn’t seem capable of balancing the various chemicals that slosh around the body controlling mood and behavior.
I have done fairly well adjusting to the fact that I need this medication. There are moments when it’s embarrassing to me. Sometimes someone at church will make a comment, for example, something along the lines of: “Well, if people spent more time with Jesus instead of focusing on the world, they wouldn’t need all that medication to get through the day!” Well, maybe, but few of these same people, if afflicted by diabetes, would throw away their insulin pens and try to pray away their chemical imbalances.
I don’t mean to pick on the church, of course. There is a general societal misunderstanding about mental illness. A friend was recently complaining about a co-worker. He said: “She’s crazy! No seriously, she’s on like medication for it!” This was, of course, accompanied by the giant whooshing sound of his foot going straight into his mouth. “I didn’t mean it like that.” Well, yes and no, my friend! You didn’t mean to hurt my feelings, no; but, you did intend to clearly demarcate the normals from the crazies and, unfortunately, by virtue of needing medication I apparently end up in the latter camp of people who are less worthy.
Then, at other times, I’ve found myself peddling the wonders of medication to anyone who will listen. Like most people who find their lives very suddenly improved by something, I’ve found myself advertising it to people I never thought I would discuss such things with. No doubt, some of these people would do well to talk to their doctors. Some of these people, however, I barely even know. It isn’t the Social Worker in me that’s pushing medication. I think that it’s the part of me that wants to share how I am handling this disability I was born with. For reasons both selfless and selfish, I want it to be known that I am overcoming this disease and show others how I have won the battles that I have managed to win so far.
At the same time, I am well-aware of the limitations of medication. Medication does not solve any of life’s problems: it doesn’t tell you the meaning of life; it won’t convince you that your life is well worth living. Being on the wrong medication can actually give you a hard kick in the direction of deciding that it isn’t worth living at all. The wrong medication carries with it the additional misery of unpleasant side effects, both mental and physical, that may tip the balance for a person who is already so burdened that they feel they have no further strength to carry on.
On its best day, when you are on a well-suited medication at a proper dosage, you wake up feeling like what I imagine normal people feel like. Life is not without tension, but this tension seems manageable. You may not want to get out of bed, but this is because you’re tired and not because you feel you’re under siege. You may still lose your temper or have your feelings hurt, but the emotions are merely your emotions and you are not at their mercy. A disappointment is merely a disappointment and not potentially fatal tragedy. You can remember a time when you were happy; it doesn’t seem impossible to reach that state again.
In other words, medication can’t, and won’t, fix all of your problems for you. It can, however, help to level the playing field a little. You get the start the daily race where everyone else gets to start the race instead of several miles behind, with a ball and chain weighing down your feet.
Mental illness will be a lifelong struggle for me. The body tends to adjust to medication in ways that make them less efficacious over time. Thus, I now know that I will spend the rest of my life monitoring my moods. When a bad day turns into a bad week, and a bad week turns into a bad month, it may well be that I don’t need a vacation away from it all. I simply need to have my medication adjusted. Of course, sometimes a bad day is still a bad day and a bad week is still just a bad week. Being sensitive to these issues is part of my new awareness.
The good news is that I no longer have to be afraid of thinking. For much of my life too much deep thinking has generally left me feeling empty and helpless. This is not to say, of course, that I’m a shallow person. Rather than give up the deep thinking, I have generally sacrificed the happiness. I used to chalk it up to my sense of Stoicism: life isn’t supposed to be easy. Now I realize that every day living is also not supposed to resemble the Batan Death March.
This past week has been a difficult one. I am in the midst of a change of medication and my personal life has been, due to unrelated issues, completely chaotic. The good news is that these circumstances do not last forever. Tomorrow is another day, next week another week. Whatever the present state of darkness, it is only a matter of time before the sun rises again.
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