anecdata

20240102.dailywriting

The trip to Grand Canyon was equal parts tiring and thrilling.
Though I was told about the length of drives between destinations, I was unprepared. 3 to 4 hours driving in the East Coast means you drive through several towns and cities. 3 to 4 hours driving in the Arizona / Utah/ Nevada area means long stretches of desert plains and little else.

The views continued to be breathtaking from the moment we hit the road. But the monotony made the drive challenging.

We landed in the Vegas night. What a sight. It lit up the night sky and made itself known before the plane landed. It was bright.



By the time we checked into the hotel and settled, it was past 10:00. We had a dinner reservation; now lapsed. Everyone had spoken of In-And-Out burgers, a local fast food joint, as a *must try*. There was one close to us in Las Vegas Blvd. Little did I know how crowded and obnoxious this place is. Driving there was madness. Parking was madness. The number of people out at night in this tiny road, madness. The place was colder, due to it being a wind tunnel.

Yet, we made it to the iconic burger place. Again, crowded. My mask stayed on the entire time. The restaurant was a packed sardine can. That did not surprise me at this point. What did, was the rate at which people were cycling through. The entire machine was *efficient*. It lived up to its name, in and out.Food came out of the kitchen at the same absurd pace that customers came in.Fast food, indeed.
Our order was the basic double and fries. The taste was nothing to write home about (it’s a burger), but the fast service and low cost knocks it up a few notches.

We broke fast at Blueberry Hill the next morning. It was a wholesome local breakfast joint. I had read about it before and went expecting a west coast iHop experience. It was better than that. Less corporate, more family oriented (and a tad more religious than I would have preferred). But it was to be expected. The food was quick and the folks were nice. Who could ask for more?

We departed towards Zion National Park soon after. It was going to be a scenic - but as mentioned above- long drive. And it was. By the time we arrived, it was nearing 3pm. Enough time for a drive up to the top, and a quick hike. By this point, I thought I was accustomed to the mountains and desert colors. Nothing prepared me for the absolute transformation it takes when the sun sets. Everything shines like gold.
To say it was breathtaking is not an understatement.
It was.


We drove through the Dixie forest towards Bryce Canyon. The drive this time was exhilarating. It was through the stone arches and by the cliffs. I am convinced this was the most beautiful drive of my life. Every sight was another natural wonder. I feared that this awesome view would distract me to our death - the cliffs were a steep drop. My wife agreed.
The thrill of this drive did not lessen when the sun set. When it got dark, it got dark hard. I could turn off my headlight and see the stars in the sky. Unreal. And, unwise to do in a steep, twisting and turning, single lane road as the lonesome car without any cell signal.

We were fortunate in that we stopped by in Cedar City to grab a quick dinner, because we learned late that Bryce Canyon does not offer much in terms of late night cuisine. Unlucky, that it was Christmas Eve and our first dozen picks were closed. Lucky that a tiny Japanese Hibachi restaurant remained open.
We arrived at the next hotel much in the same fashion as the first one. Late. Close to the final hour of check-in. This trend continues throughout the trip.

I lost this writing once. Let us try again. As of last week I have started medication for the ADHD. It has been underwhelming. All I have are side effects. The psychiatrist mentioned it would be slow on the uptake. Effects on executive functioning would not appear until a few weeks into it. That knowledge tempered my expectations, yet the side effects are unpleasant.

Nausea seems to be the big one. It is constant. Whether I have eaten or not, it is there. Dry mouth is another. I drink a lot of water as a result. Good? Right? But no. I need to go to the restroom regardless, because - yep - another side effect. I have experienced a sudden blurring of vision. Freaky but rare.

Currently jumping between writing on my journal and writing here. Whichever comes easiest, to be honest. I would like to force myself to stick to one or another, but I fear I will do neither if that were the case,

It surprises me just how salient anxiety was in my life (is?). I mentioned before how stunned I was at my sudden inability to work upon starting the anxiety medicine. It was as if the floodgates for ADHD symptoms had been opened. The anxious thoughts were still there, just about 80% softer in volume. Easier to ignore the compulsions to act or listen to them. Of course, anxieties like "what If I don't do enough and get fired" , "if I get fired I won't be able to afford healthcare", and "If I don't work enough or beyond expectations, people will realize that I've just been tricking them about how *qualified* I am and they'll replace me with someone else!" used to function as adequate substitutions for motivation: they got me to work. Without that, I was a sailboat without wind. I also did not care. That was the scary bit. How could I not care?
I have never not cared.
What an alien feeling.
Of course, I did no work during the day. But without the same level of anxiety, it did not feel bad. I completed my tasks...eventually. But it was a challenge.

After a weeklong bout with strep, I am no longer ill. At least when it comes to my throat. I recently started this annoying journey to get properly diagnosed with ADHD. Today was my second meeting with the clinical psychologist discussing the neuro-psychological evaluation. Yep. I have ADHD. Summary report oncoming over the weekend. I am not sure how I feel about this yet. The flag signalling an imposter is waving wildly in my mind. Can I really change my entire historical narrative? How can anyone expect that? Well… I guess no one expects that to happen overnight. Everyone I have spoken to about this agrees that this is a long process. I am impatient. Am I doing enough to make this growth happen? And if I am, is it enough? Is it the most efficient way of doing so? Well then, why not? Of course this is when my therapist would chime in about my need for control. Yes, I know I cannot control everything. Things will take the time they take. I must be patient. But all the while, I will feel like an imposter. To this, my therapist suggested that perhaps I am hard on myself and do not give myself the credit I deserve- which is apparently not just a little bit, but a lot. I have a billion objections to this, naturally. She likened it to a person who has a limp completing a marathon, against all odds. Sure you completed the marathon, but that does not invalidate the fact that you overcame massive hurdles. So let me try this. Let me attempt to look beyond my obvious deficiencies and see the accomplishments and choices that got me there. The first one that comes to mind is my struggle with pain killers. I do not talk about it often. I can give myself credit for not being helplessly addicted to pain killers. There was a brief stint in 2010-2011, when I was working, going to school, and also undergoig dialysis. As if that were not enough, I was also going in and out of outpatient surgeries because of dialysis complications. I had enough pain to ask for prescription painkillers. Doctors would not hesitate to prescribe what I asked for. Even without the surguries, I had a tome of medical issues that lead to chronic pain. The entrypoint was set. Soon I would notice myself get incredibly dependent on the drugs to function. If I did not have it before going to bed, I would be overcome with anxiety. If I did not have it in my bag, I would be a mess in school. I never used it in school, but it was a sort of safety net. My real use was confined at home, I became dependent on the warm hugh of the opioids. I kept silent about this for over a decade. It was my shame. Afterall, addiction is not something that happens to people like me? It is something you read about. Whatever this dependence was, it was not addiction. Right? Having noticed this, I threw away my remaining bottles of rx in one of those medicine disposal lockboxes. Afterall, if I was not addicted- I could always get a refill. Opioid withdrawals are hell. But I persevered through it. I had started to manage my time a bit better now. On an ideal day, I could squeeze out about an hour of socializing with my friends. I like to think I managed to mask my symptoms, but my friends are smarter than that. They never spoke about it. We just spent time together. They went out of their way to invite me out. It helped. But the withdrawal symptoms stuck for longer than I would have liked. Nights were the hardest because I could not sleep and find myself instinctively desiring that warm hug. I do not remember really what I spent those nights doing. I may have thrown myself into one project after another. I was forced to spend around 10-11 hours attached to a dialysis machine every night. I had time to indulge myself in projects.

Whatever the case, I managed. Yet, I can now see how easily that could have gone another direction. If my coping strategies had rolled in another direction. One that was not conducive in this world, how different would my life be now? I am grateful for that decision (and strength) to recognize a growing dependence and cut myself off. That was big. I knew then that these kind of drugs would be very tempting for me, and so they became off limits. No hard drugs, no weed, no alcohol, and absolutely no smoking. I recognized my addictive personality and set rules for myself to prevent this from happening again. Of course that was before I learned that people with ADHD tend to self-medicate with just these sort of drugs. Knowing this now, I ought to give myself even more credit for having stayed away from it. It could have gone a different direction.

I am very lucky that my coping strategies (maladaptive or not) eventually result in my picking up certain skills that society values. That is how, despite my erratic employment record, I have continued to scuttle from one job to another despite not officially being trained as such. Pure luck. My coping strategies could have easily been exclusively drugs and videogames. Instead, I lucked out. I obsessively read blogs, watched lectures, and jumped from one project to another. I felt dumb for never completing a lot of these. But I continued. I think I should give myself credit for continuing in the face of times when I just wanted to stop.

“You can’t love others until you first love yourself” is a common enough saying; I hear it a lot. There are times I say it to myself. Yet, I do not always love myself. Seldom, in fact. This saying always felt a bit hollow. It rang like a platitude oft repeated, but not understood.
Over the past few months I have grappled with the question of “who am I?” . This question directed my navigation of my inner conflict between what I want and the infamous “Tyranny of shoulds”. Unfortunate, yet necessary. A part of me questioned whether I had been genuine in my relationships. Had I really wanted to be there for my friends or was I merely acting in accordance to my “shoulds”. Was I really the one who stayed up invested in conversations? Were my suggestions and care directed at them genuine? Or perhaps just a hallucination brought on by the dictates of my neurosis. Was I acting out of real care and interest or were they just all actions borne out of a fear or rejection and distrust?
30+ years of negative thinking has trained me in being a harsh critic and a harsher judge of myself. That part of me loved this conflict. It meant numerous opportunities to give myself the harsh and brutal truth. And how could I disagree? It was the “truth” after all.
Turns out, the truth is complicated. And this part of me just enjoys the brutal and harsh aspects over the truth. Basically, I was an asshole to myself. I would never speak to anyone the way I spoke to myself. I spent my life ignoring the good aspects of myself. Events and actions occurred in my life that were good, but the comparing/ judging voice would put it down. Why was it a surprise to me to think that my actions were not genuine? I have little compassion to myself, and speak to myself harshly; it was natural that I expected others to see me the same way. And if they did not, well it was because they just did not know me well enough yet. Yet.
No matter how good a friendship got, it was only a matter of time until the other shoe dropped. Of course, then they would see me for who I really am.
Now, I see where this thinking came from. It is a sort of protective shell that had a purpose growing up. Being able to perceive all the “shoulds” and attending to them in a chaotic household gave me a feeling of agency. It controlled the drama. Sure I was a scapegoat at times, but it brought some control. There was a purpose for it at one point. It just was not the most well thought out strategy. The body only cares to survive from one moment to the next, future-sight is a duty for the mind. Of Course the mind is not fully developed as a child so it does what it can.
I want to hate this part of me. But I cannot. I should not. Because it was borne out of a child’s struggle to survive. Yes, it no longer serves me. But it may have been how I survived some very hard moments. I think this is what is means to be compassionate to yourself. It is a new practice. Does it really matter if my concerns and time spent with friends came out of a fear that they’d reject me otherwise? Yes, a little. But I still did it. I should feel grateful that I was able to do that. Feel compassion to myself that needed to adopt those strategies so I could have friends. Gratitude for doing so not fully understanding and not being resentful or dirty to others. If I acted in the ways that were modeled to me at home, I would have no social circle.
Everyday I force myself to think a little more about the harder moments of my life. I feel sad but grateful. Not just to myself, but also to others who knew me and stuck around. This time, not under the guise of how I saw myself, but from the actions that they saw. They were not blind, they saw the struggles. But because I did not feel compassion to myself, I expected their compassion to be inauthentic too. I assumed they were saying it out of an obligation; just “being nice”. And when I reproached or did not accept their help. Acts that resulted from me thinking “I am not good enough for people to want to be around me” was in instead being understood as “ I don’t trust you” “you will betray me”. It treated their genuine care as insincere. Because that is how I saw myself.
Looking back, of course, it is different. There are some friendships I pushed away too far. I was unable to deal with genuine care. And friendships wither in the absence of vulnerability and care for each other. Perhaps this is what is meant by one’s inability to love others until you love yourself. In Eric Barker’s Plays well with others, he mentions that when talking about friends the same parts of your brain light up when talking about yourself. In more than one instance, he alludes to friends being effectively an extension of yourself. Good friends. So then, maybe the truth is not that you cannot love others until you first love yourself because loving others is loving yourself.

Lichens are still awesome. Thinking of my body and mind as a collaborative organism is fascinating. Makes bridging the gap easier. Especially when I now know the extent of my disconnect between the two.

It really does feel like a half-hearted relationship. It is almost as if during my childhood the abuse was too much that the mind just got up and let the body fend for itself. Sounds silly. But it is not entirely wrong? It feels like that. The mind, however, never left. It just stuck around like a petulant child. Which, again, it very well may be. But it has not had quite the environment to allow for a growth into a well integrated adult. Yet, it persists on demanding.

If this were a reciprocal relationship, the mind has been draining the body dry. Unsustainable. Which, of course, I am painfully aware of. Burnout is my middle name. The failures and the self-judgement also make sense, because the Mind expects a lot of things but doesn't really provide to the body. Heck, a few days ago I was paralyzed by the decision of buying replacement shoes. Shoes that are very much not a luxury. Yet, the judgments came out flying. Because the mind is just so used to taking, it does not acknowledge that the body has needs. And it is no sign of weakness to have those met.

I see in myself, a replay of the abusive relationship I had with my parents. They expected much from me, but were not exactly the most attentive. Sure, my necessities were met. But that was effectively it. Don't let the body die. In both of these relationships, part of what made me …me was objectified.

I really try not to think of this, because it makes me feel like a failure. Not in the way you would expect. In another life, before I started therapy, I was massively depressed. That is not the shocker. In 2015, I had just returned from Nepal. I was unlucky enough to have been quite close to the epicenter of the earthquake. The disconnect between what my body was feeling and what my mind dictated I ought to be feeling was severe. Despite being obviously shaken, I threw myself into humanitarian efforts. Being a savior for others felt a lot better than recognizing that I was a victim. But I was. Despite all my efforts, when I returned stateside. My body made it known. I could not sleep well. The slightest termors would send me careening into physical responses I could not quite explain. Movies that featured earthquakes were out. I remember watcing Paddington, and leaving at the first scene to lock myself in a washroom because of a panic attack. I even had to quit riding the metro or public transportation. But the mind was so against recognizing that there was something wrong. And it kept pushing. And the body kept trying to deliver. Until it could no more.

I remember blacking out in my apartment more than once. Or rather, I do not remember. But I awoke on the floor with injuries. My mind didn't like the message. So it never happened.

The pushing never stopped. Outside I looked normal. I had a job. I had a social life. I talked to people.
I did everything my mind thought I ought to be doing. Karen Horner's Tyranny of the shoulds in full effect.

Turns out, PTSD does not like being ignored for too long. Especially when combined with depression and preexisting medical trauma. A few months down the road, I found myself having suicidal thoughts. Few months further still, I bought myself a ticket to Niagra Falls, fully intending to end it. It felt very rational. Until it didn't.

I would like to say that I came to my senses and yadda yadda. But that was not it. My mind became active, yes, but it was judgemental as hell. "Wow look at you, loser, just going to give up?" And many like it. I sat there for what felt like hours. My bus came and went. I wandered around for a good while before returning home. There was no one to notice I was even missing. But I heard the same voice in me "wow, what a loser. Can't even do -suicide- right." - "see I knew you didn't have it in you" et.c I had a feeling that was not good. The mind didn't care. But it was more of a way to act like I tried something. Tyranny of shoulds. Image matters. Of course one of the first question my therapist asked was "do you have thoughts of suicide, harming yourself, or anything like that?" and I responded "Oh yea, everyday. Doesn't everyone" No. As it turns out, dear reader, they do not.

I now look back and see a familiar conversation. Someone screaming, and often acting out physically to get attention, to have their basic needs met…and the other party ignoring it. Because the demands don't matter.

I come back to the lichen, because it too survives in harsh conditions. Ordinarily algae and fungi do not become symbiotic. There is no need. Each can fend for itself. Kimmerer says that in lab experiments, they would only become lichen when resources are scarce. Until I started going to regular therapy, until very recently, I don't think my mind realized just how scarce resources really were. And I think that realization means it is high time that it meets the body's needs as well.

I came across CGP Grey's Video on Theme recently. What an interesting idea. I confess my addiction on resolutions. They seem to be neverending. Outside of the rare successes, I find myself revisiting the same resolutions. Lose weight, read 50 books, write something, draw more and their ilk.

Two things resonated. The first: when I look back at my resolutions, they were sweeping grand narratives. I would lose 50 lbs, improve my physique to herculean proportions, and find the holy grail. Not quite that, but it may as well have been. Somewhere in my mind there was a disconnect. Like my previous post on knowing being only 1/2 the battle, a part of me thought that making the resolution was the hard part. And once you made the resolution poof you're cured/beefed/smarter/prolific/n-lingual. How unfortunate for us all that change only comes from action.

Themes tackle this for me. It lets me be very granular about it. Even 1 minute of meditation before bed is on theme of being healthier. It should not work. Yet, switching my mind from goals to themes quieted the judgemental voice. I can feel happy with decisions inline with my theme. Yes, even the small ones.

The other benefit of themes lay in not needing to choose. CGP Grey speaks a lot about the 'fog of the future'. Perhaps it is because I have split the thinking me and the doing me for so long, or out of a neurotic need for even the goals to be "perfect", setting goals paralyze me. What if I am wrong? What if a year, two, or a decade later I regret this goal? What if I should be spending time doing xyz instead? What if my goals don't fit the SMART (Specific, Measurable, Actionable, Realistic, Timed), HARD (Heartfelt, Animated, Required, Difficult), or WOOP (Wish, Outcome, Obstacle, Plan) methodologies? The paralyzing questions are endless. A thematic approach greatly reduces the friction for all of these (or none of these). Because, as the video states, the theme functions like a little robot that guides me into branching actions that are inline. Furthermore, setting goals on theme using these methodologies become much simpler. Because unlike before, I have a compass directing me. Is this inline with my theme? If not, I can change course with little guilt.

The other aspect is that a year is just too broad- too long! My brain wants to spend the first 90% preparing and the other 10% frustrated it hasn't already happened yet. Or I just will procrastinate, because "the year is still young" until it is not. Then the tune changes to "wow we're already in x-month?? Too late now, I guess I failed this year…yadda yadda". But really this fits right along with the intellectualizing everything part, because I will just never leave the "preparation" phase. Each year, I step into a new circle of a provisional life. A low humming current letting me know that no amount of prep-work will directly translate to having done the change/act. Because I do know. It is just easy to put aside when the scale is a year. Or a -lifetime-. Because I will get to it eventually. Right?

Well, as it turns out, no. This was a blow to me. But it is not really a -new- realization. When I read Tiny Habits and Atomic Habits, I already knew the issues. But I'm still dumbfounded by how granular I can make things. It made me aware of some of the judgemental voices in me. Who cares how long it takes to do something? Who cares if the "original intent" in starting a habit was? No one is keeping score. No one cares why I started therapy. It does not really matter, because…the end result was that I was in therapy and willing to work with the counselor. I believed that people cared enough to keep tabs and chastise me about it. And would you believe it, only one person did that. Me.

And so I go back to why a year? The judgemental me would tell you that anything that could happen in a shorter period of time is not worth doing. Or that even a year is not enough. You should do a PHD, run for local office, join a priesthood, become a monk. Grand goals require a lot of time to do. And the neurotic in me prided these lofty grand goals- even if I never accomplished any of them. This, of course, makes sense if you think setting the goals = achieving them. Time and again, I need to remind myself that the setting of the goals are not the aspect that matter, the doing of the act is. But a goal for a year or longer was what everyone else was doing. And so, I never questioned it.

The idea of doing it by seasons is genius. It is short enough that if I waste too much time preparing, I won't get anywhere. There is a sense of urgency. As CGP Grey says "A season is a nice human length of time". There is a natural clock around you that reminds you that time is indeed passing.

As you start to walk on the way, the way appears. - Rumi

Disjointed thoughts ahead! Another week in the Movie/reading material swap! The movie this week was 2006's Children of Men. Having just finished watching the season finale of The Last Of Us, I saw many paralells. However, this movie was thought provoking in its own right.

The movie kept me engaged the entire time! That is not something that most films manage to do. I think the graying of the workforce was -just- salient enoguh in my mind that this movie tapped into it. The worldbuilding for this movie starts at 60 and never really stops. I can see this being tiring for some folks, but I loved it. It kept me engaged. Even silly things like called refugees 'fugees' felt normal because it was normal in-world. The emphasis on fertility and just how much of a shock it was to the world was emphasised with small things littered throughout the set-design- billboards with 'Avoiding Fertility Tests is a crime!'.

The graying of the workforce is a real issue and this movie takes it to the extreme (as media ought to do). Governments are already panicking that younger people are not having kids at the rate needed to replenish the workforce. Of course that's a much larger issue that I'm not qualified to talk on. But that definitely made it easier for me to entertain the possibility of the film's premise.

I was really surprised at how easily Jasper became a memorable character. He did not have a lot of lines, but wow they were nuclear. I laughed a little when he said something along the lines of Anti-Depressants and suicide pills in a kit, but weed is still illegal. Even in a dystopian hellscape, these bizarre things existed. I think the movie goes out of its way to hammer that point in. There still exists this severe classist separation - even at the brink of extinction.

The girl that he is transporting to the 'miracle boat' feels very much like Ellie from The Last Of US. And I get that her story continues beyond the ending of the movie. But, the movie ending when the MC dies left a small hole in my heart. I did not get the closure I wanted. We don't even know if that boat...is -the- boat.

The ursurping / bandit/gang fighting that takes Julian was insane. I did not see it coming. Yeesh.

Today was a good day. The first day since my surgery that was almost pain free. Healing in progress.

I started my second job in earnest last week. It may turn into an enventual full time position doing data and assesment work. Current assignments, however, are all summary statistics and visualization work. I have no complaints! I am very excited at the prospect of working with my old team in this new dynamic. They used to be an excel house, but it looks like in the time that I've been away they moved towards Tableau. How fun!

It was still a very packed day. I think I am slowly becoming a better architect for my own life. While recovering from the surgery, I worked my way through the first 10 chapters of Automate the Boring Things with Python (available online for free). It seemed weird, but fully engaging with the material really pulled me away from the pain. Of course my brain can't be so focused on the material all the time. That would be unrealistic to expect of myself in the best times, much less whilst in recovery. (I think that's a problematic trend in my life). But I am so happy that I kept at it. Lots of concepts that seemed unfathomable to me now make sense. I want to say that I was able to brute force through it, but it has just taken the time it takes. This concept is hard to come to terms with. Because I want to do so much.

But I think that is only because the version of myself that I compare myself to is superhuman. I am learning about myself from the Neurosis and Human Growth many things that strike at my soul with anxiety. None more than this. The book mentions neurotic-pride and self-hate. Two concepts that I did not know of, but of which I am intimate with. Whether there is such a thing as healthy pride is another topic, but the book contends that the main difference between healthy and neurotic-pride exists in reality. Neurotic-pride comes from the things that can be done in fantasy. Which, naturally, means everything is possible. This brings this sort of goal-post chasing that is impossible for mortals. The neurotic compares with himself everything he is and does. And always falls short. This leads to the self-hate. You mete insults and shame on yourself because of fantasy standards you can never meet. And you hate yourself all the more, because you tell yourself that you ought not be affected by the meted "justice". The neurotic-pride has convinced you in some twisted way that this is all that you deserve. It's really viscious. Because the warped pride exists not in what you do, but what ought to be. And you always 'ought to be different'.

I am all too familiar with this twofold shame this brings. It was not until I read this chapter that it really hit me that this comparison with the idealized self has been the consistent backdrop of my life. How awful. Because under this backdrop everything is poisoned. All the times my friends and family told me that I was capable, competent, and likeable came to my ears as sarcastic comments; why would they not have been in earnest? I look back at all the times I reacted harshly to an innocous comment, because it appeared so frightfully different over that backdrop. Because there was no way someone else could know what I -could- be, nay, should be. It was never clear to me that we were walking through life with entirely different definitions of pride and belonging. Neurotic pride hurts, because it can only ever come from outside. You're always performing or underperforming because you really believe that without external validation, you are nothing. I admit, this is probably something everyone has to unlearn. But, most learn it at a much earlier age (and often without counseling).

It also made it hard to believe in myself to do anything well. Anything I am doing, this idealized god-self would have done it and better. If, against all odds, I complete the task at hand; the idealized god-self would have done something else more worthy. I was unable to put my frustrations in words in any of my previous counseling sessions. But I think I can now. It is frustation at my own mortality when seen from the lens of my neurotic-pride. A mortal cannot compete with this idealized-god self. And comparing to the god self will always be a letdown.

I think, that is why it has been so hard for me to do things. Because anything I start, the god self has already completed it and mastered. I get impatient, and frustrated because unlike the god self, I have mortal limits. I need to traverse each grain of the sands of time. There are no shortcuts. It certainly explains the appeal of finding 'the perfect tool' or 'technique' or 'book' that will shorten my journey there. They let you remain under the spell that since you haven't started, once you start with these shortcuts, you will jump quickly to where the godself is. But that day never comes.

What do I do about this now? Now that I recognize this insidiousness within me. Shaking off the 'Tyranny of Shoulds' is the first and foremost goal. This is how the godself thrives. It is the proprietor of shoulds- afterall that's what neurotic-pride is. A pride of the shoulds and coulds.

At this moment, I think all I can really do is notice the tyrannical thoughts. I can observe them and work my way backwards. I can do things for their intrinsic values and let them take the time they take. I need to recognize when I get impatient, I am impatient for the future that has not existed yet. But I cannot rush myself there. In fact, rushing may mean that I never get there.

In a last bit of good news, I went thrifting with my wife. I was able to score a pair of almost-new Bose QuietComforts for 15 bucks! What a deal!

I have not written in a while because of a surgery last Wednesday. As with any surgery dealing with the lower body, it brings discomfort to talk about. I am not sure why, but it stinks of embarrassment and shame. Even though it is not. The whole prostate/colon/lower body stuff is a bit of a sensitive area. But the kidney is there too, and I have no issue talking about that.

In any case I am recovering from the surgery. Today is the first day without any pain medicines or narcotics. This was a lot harder than I thought it would be. Yet, I am hesitant to use the pain medicine too often, because I am too familiar with the addictive nature of narcotics. Maybe because I know a bit of how it is to be addicted that I am hyper-vigilant about it. Even though I have been allowed a certain dosage, I have been occupying myself in other ways to not take pain medicine.

It does not always work, but keeping my mind fully engaged in something else has helped. The pain does not disappear, but it becomes a little easier to manage. For the most part, I have either been trying to read "Human Neurosis and Growth" and program in python. I would say for a pain-stricken mind, I have actually done a considerable amount of python coding. If I could quantify it, I would do so here. Reading the book, is however, much more difficult. Not only is the content very dense, it also feels very pointed at me. Pointed...in ways that make me pause and rub my temple in frustration. Because...ah

Take this exerpt for example, in the chapter about neurotic pride :

"The neurotic may build an elaborate system of avoidances in the hope of circumventing future hurts. This too is a process that goes on automatically. He is not aware of wanting to avoid an activity because it might hurt his pride. He just avoids it, often without even being aware that he is. The process pertains to activities, to associations with people, and it may put a check on realistic strivings and efforts. If it is widespread it can actually cripple a person's life. He does not embark on any serious pursuits commensurate with his gifts lest he fail to be a brilliant success. He would like to write or to paint and does not dare to start. He does not dare to approach girls lest they reject him. He may not even dare to travel lest he be awkward with hotel managers or porters. Or he may go only to places where he is well known since he would feel like a nonentity with strangers. He withdraws from social contacts lest he be self-conscious. So, according to his economic status, he either does nothing worth while or sticks to a mediocre job and restricts his expenses rigidly. In more than one way he lives beneath his means. In the long run this makes it necessary for him to withdraw farther from others, because he cannot face the fact of lagging behind his age group and therefore shuns comparisons or questions from anybody about his work. In order to endure life he must now entrench himself more firmly in his private fantasy-world. But, since all these measures are more a camouflage than a remedy for his pride, he may start to cultivate his neuroses because the neurosis with a capital N then becomes a precious alibi for the lack of accomplishment"

This felt like a documentary narration of things that I have done (or not done) to preserve some inner-pride. And reading this chapter gave me a lot of pause. Because it depicts so well the troubles that I went through in therapy. I have written many times before about the "hobby-lite" and I feel like this encapsulates that idea. Neurotic pride just lets you get close enough to peer at the hobby without actually taking part in it. I want to think that I have grown beyond this. Because I now chose which activities I want to pursue and which I drop (see earlier thoughts on needle felting). But I have to ask myself what other aspects of my life I am blind to this. Because it took me so much work to recognize this behaviour in me when it comes to these very specific areas. Where else is neurotic pride lurking?

And that is just from one chapter. The follow up to that chapter is 'Neurotic hate', which seems lovely. Because I am only 2 pages into it, and I feel like I highlighted entire pages. I still do not know what to do with these highlights.

Do you feel like it is an impossible upwards battle to complete things? I feel like that sometimes. I am always so excited to start new projects. The preparatory steps leading to it beyond thrilling to me. There is a delight in the hyper focused obsessiveness that consumes me. Days go by, months even, and this new project is all I can think of. When I say it consumes me, I really mean it. Sometimes I go months reading and preparing for the hobby.

By the time I actually start, I have become performatively competent. I feel like I know things. But it is a lie. Because I have yet to even do it. But because I think I know more than I do. I expect more than I can do at the time. When the rubber meets the ground, I fall flat. Oh, the shame that this brings. It makes me not want to do it anymore. Not the good kind of shame either, the bad kind. The kind you hide from your friends.

Oh they must notice. How could they not?

I wish this was a once off, but it is not. Lately I have been allowing myself the opportunity to just dream. There is no need to -do everything-. Maybe just writing about it good enough?

For example, a few nights ago I found out about how easy (but not really) felting was. And how breath-taking the results could be. Before I knew it, I was deep into the rabbit hole. I knew what kind of felt projects I would like to do. I had bookmarked over a dozen things on it. Threw some books in my library hold list and added some in my thrift-books cart. I knew what kind of tools I would buy to get started. It was all ready to go.

But this time I did something different. I deleted it all.

It felt weird. A resounding acknowledgement of my finnitude. I can't do it all - and that is ok. No, it is more than OK- it is fantastic. Because it embiggens everything else I do with value. Each and every choice becomes grander.

Still feels a little shameful, though. That needs to be unlearned.