There have been at least half a dozen times in my life when I have been approached by friends, family and colleagues and asked if I realized that I created all my own problems and drama. It would hit them, all at once, like some shrewd observation that they made.
I’d argue every time. I would insist that all I was doing was waking up every morning, following the rules of the road; following the rules at my job; following the rules of civilized conduct and following the rules of physics. (I am quite certain there were more rules but any that I have managed to block out are most likely responsible for my still being legally sane.)
Anyway, no matter where I went, I’d explain, craziness just showed up. Highs. Lows. Elation. Anger. Melancholy. Euphoria.
My esteemed shrink pointed out that this “craziness” I refer to does not just show up. She’s pretty certain that I’m at least partially responsible for setting the wheels in motion and I practically send out an open invitation for insanity to pop in. Furthermore, my lifelong distaste for calm and serenity can be blamed for all of it.
You know, the inability to be satisfied with working 11 or 12 hours a day and coming home and reading. As a novelty, I can get myself to accept that lifestyle. It’s when nothing unsettling happens for a while that I begin to think I’m dying.
It’s still up in the air how skewed my perception of reality was in jr high and high school, but I will always remember feeling like someone was “going to kick my ass.” I remember thinking, “every time I finally confronted the person and talked my way out of it, someone else sounded the alarm.” My only explanation was that I was one of the smaller kids, so insecure oafs would make up some excuse to get into a fight they figured they’d easily win and then advertise it all over school.
(Editor’s Note: just last night I happened to see one of those clickbait science articles that stated with solemn certainty that all humans engage in revisionist history when it comes to their life and experiences. For argument’s sake, let’s just say my memories are pretty accurate.)
My brain needed to be worrying about something constantly. Whether it was someone who wanted to fight, something that was going down at home, or something I was failing at school. If I was, by some miracle, not dealing with any of that, I’d have plenty of time to get depressed, convince myself I’d never find a girl and wonder what it was all for.
Life, that is. I had no patience for small talk. I wanted to tackle the big stuff: so this is everything? This is all life has to offer? I would lament.
Turns out, it wasn’t.
Life, especially in the US is filled with possibility. I realize it’s much less than perfect here, but it’s also much better than North Korea or Syria. You can wake up one morning and decide to be a published author, an entrepreneur, a Buddhist monk or even gay. There’s really no limit.
I always seem to turn to mortality, but it’s only because motherf*ckers keep dying. My neighbor from across the hall in the college dorms—this goofy kid—had a heart attack this week. One of the technicians at work, same age as me, also dead from unknown causes.
I am well aware of the danger I am in—not because of alcohol or substances or poor diet or not enough exercise, but because I have been behaviorally addicted to fear and relief, fear and relief, all my life. I made an occupation out of getting all the way through high school without a fist fight, but I would’ve been so much better off if I actually did get physically punched. The beating I gave myself every day was ten times worse. It never ended.
I’m sure you’ve heard on some documentary at some point that the reason animals don’t die of blood pressure issues or strokes is because they go right back into repose after surviving a danger. An animal could have just suffered several lacerations and come within seconds of being killed, but the moment it’s over, it’s over. Humans, me especially, get past a danger and then relives it a hundred or so times.
This put me in a physiological situation where cortisol and other hormones pummeled my body every day. And that, my friends, might explain the need for chaos and silence in equal doses.
If physically abused children can grow up associating violence with love, it is not too far of a reach to point out the possibility that life, for me, looks like suffering. Without suffering, I become very anxious. Like, without misery, I might starve or become homeless. It’s like the pilot light that reminds me I’m still alive.
But it’s like a pilot light that emits nuclear fallout.
Articles like this are only useful when they offer some kind of “call to action,” If you see yourself in this, there’s only one way to freedom. Ram Dass. In this 40 yard dash to the grave, Ram Dass can help all of us slow down a little. His priceless lectures and talks are all over YouTube and there’s even a weekly podcast you can check out.
Be Here Now
“Now” is the only true thing. Everything else is fiction.
"behaviorally addicted to fear and relief, fear and relief, all my life" - this one hits home. :( Thanks for the article and for sharing that quote at the end.