Recently I’ve been finding excuses to tell people that no, in fact, they do not know me. They do not even know themselves. Pretentious? Yes. Still true in many dimensions, a common theme in Daniel Kahneman’s book Thinking, Fast and Slow ( https://medium.com/@pashaps/highlights-from-thinking-fast-and-slow-parts-i-and-ii-d388b7ccded ). Though said in jest, my recent commitment to a meditative practice – in part because of this book – has made it painfully clear how true it is. This isn’t some deep insight from a self-awareness guru, merely a gradual awakening of senses I’d forgotten I have. To mitigate the risk of three paragraphs of side-notes on topics I’m not qualified to speak on, I will get to the point.
I do not like myself. I do not seem to like myself. The part of me that constitutes itself as an experience of I feels an energy pattern which relates to disgust which is an evolutionary byproduct of… Ok, enough. My life feels like a hodgepodge of all the decisions I did not make myself, every attempt at a step towards divergent roads more burdensome and less fruitful than the last. So I numb myself from the pain of reliving someone else’s life, and in so doing ward off the real potential that living differently would also mean pain. Maybe it is pain, all the way down to the turtles, but I am beginning to see it is the numbness that prevents me from potentiating. Or whatever.
I was never into the whole everything comes full circle business, but the older I get the less I care about what I used to think. My journey really started with an act of self harm, but life did not improve until a therapist taught me to forgive myself. I’m still spinning my wheels, but as I learn to disregard myself a small hope emerges that the moon is the limit.