It might be appropriate to shed a little light on my beliefs, or just spew thoughts, a little more often than I have. The need to get myself heard has been growing for about a year, and even I want to know what I have to say. It has been at least 9 months since I’ve last committed myself to depression. I hit a low in January, and while in therapy I let a critical soft spot bleed my emotions out in April. When my therapy ended in June, I left it feeling revived. Capacitated. I have acquired a peace with myself in this world. I never realized, or previously acknowledged, my capacity to love the world. The love I have for this world, it hurts. I want to express it. Then, I remembered this old blog site of mine.
It led me to a specific thought that may or may not be in fact true: The amount of love one is capable of feeling and expressing is a complement, a reflection, of the amount of pain and suffering one has endured. They are equal forces, love and sadness. Maybe it can be seen more clearly when considering destruction and creation. Or life and death. Or pouring water into a plastic cup for so long that the cup capsizes. These processes can be inescapable, consequential, so natural. One can feel loved for so long, followed by the sudden fear of, or a realization, of abandonment. I think it feels cyclical. Again, inescapable the capacity to accept and bestow love on what virtue one has allowed into their life, reflected “perfectly” in their tendencies to feel sad, abandoned, empty, stressed, emotionally drained.
Given what ever I just typed, I’m not too sure it is alright to believe that love is a “good” thing, or sadness a “bad” thing. They are natural things, and nature does not seem “good” or “bad”.. Or “fair”. You deal with the hand you are dealt, whether you chose to draw or not (and you were not given the choice, you were drawn the cards; at this point, any such squeal “I didn’t chose/want this life!” is as practical as a wasp). Destruction is not “bad,” creation not “good.” or vice versa. They are natural, cyclical, only given such qualities in relation to the context. Life and death similarly.
Given what ever I just typed, I prefer life over death. The reason I do is the people. As an individual, you are a beautiful being. Each of them is unique; even if two people share the exact same experiences, they will interpret the information before them differently. It might be as basic as the fact that both those persons were not able to see it with their eyes literally positioned on the same spot. These different angles alone will inspire different perspectives. One might catch something the other didn’t. One can SEE the other; not their self. These few things, not considering the ever changing world they are watching. And behold, two different stories. What happened outside of their control might be the same, but they might not interpret the same information similarly. That is unique. It would also be unique to me if both persons had the exact same perspective. I don’t see it impossible, but nonetheless would be unique to me if possible. That fascinates me. I do not want to live knowing there is a story I haven’t heard that will inspire me to create, to think, to review what I know. To love. There are enough people in the world to never give up on this resolve. But of course, knowing I will never know it all, I must not hasten this search. As much as I prefer to know the lives of others, to understand their love and pain, I must live my own, and have my loves and pains. Otherwise I would not be able to inspire the same thing for a mirror image of me. My greatest weakness is neglect of myself.
Given what ever I just said, I do not see the world in terms of fairness [justice; equal; worthy of witness]. Nature does not point to there being a fair life, a fair existence, for anything that lives. It does though, appear in the big picture to be “fair;” “Life” evens itself out, but not for any particular life. A child will be born into hunger and poverty, die before it meets the sun. One will call that unfair. A child will be born into an overabundance of gluttony and greed. One will hold prejudice, privilege. I will hold that for not a second longer without letting it go. It feels vain. I know very little about the world. I do not accept that I know anything about myself too accurately without not eventually evolving. I do not advocate for confusion of oneself; this is simply evidence for what I said earlier: My greatest weakness is neglect of myself. I feel vain whenever I make a claim. I feel vain whenever I conclude. I do not acknowledge myself. This is the gaping hole; the cause of my eventual recession in love for the world outside of me, that the darkness will hook on to as it grows. I will not claim I can stop it, or let it convince me I’ve lost, because sadness it not bad. It is cyclical.
It’s simply the best time now, during my happiest, during my bravest, that I will type. I do not want to type when I feel empty, when I feel the internal gravity dragging me into the little square hole I carved. I do not want to leak my hate, my sadness, to the world. I will instead fight. I will not surrender, because during those times I am aware that I had forgotten something crucial, something too important, that my tongue has forgotten. And the weight will have grown only for not expressing myself in time. The reason will be forgetting the uniqueness of the individual. It might also be that I have risen enough people. I might help someone without knowing, and I won’t know it until the little plastic cup has overflowed with love and I leak out. I notice as I type that I am expressing myself in a time what I notice the other “lions” and “lionesses” are in slumber. I go to them for rescue, and then others come to me. They disappear from my scope, and I step into the light others wait for me to step in. I become a new role, the strongest chain one can hold on to as we all help each other rise, until I am again at the bottom. I may not have a choice. It may feel like a responsibility to lift the world. It seems a worthy goal.
Now that the weight is off me, maybe I can simplify this. I barely know a thing about the world: that exchanging love is preferable to the exchanging of most other experiences. There is nothing better to me than expressing and receiving this, to keeping this at the forefront of decision-making. It illuminate others. And that illuminates me. But I will not shun or bottle up the other feelings; they deserve as much attention.
Is it not a coincidence that I have little love for myself and am committed to express all my love to the world outside of me? The people and nature are worth living for. I found my life worth living for, and maybe that negates the claim that I do not love myself.