I rarely use this forum to say what I want.
There are a number of reasons for that.
From a literary perspective, I tend to hate journaling tarted up as writing. That’s not to say that I never apply my considerable talent and skill to that exact pursuit, just that I’m never terribly thrilled about it. Some of it manages to stow away on this blog, as it’s doing right now. But most of that work sits in a file box in my closet or on text files languishing in archived folders.
At the heart of the matter is my inability to let things go.
Things being emotions, experiences, attachments and so on. They are of the utmost importance to me. They always have been, and likely always will be.
The more time I spend alive, the more I believe that I am alone in this condition. Reality seems increasingly less significant than I had always known it had to be.
But I still have yet to downgrade its credit. It’s too big to fail.
Somewhere in the distant past, I undertook the task of concealing my emotional neediness. I have always viewed this as a largely pragmatic endeavour. When all I want is to connect with people, I usually consider alienating them with my creepy clinginess to be counterproductive. Even hollow personal interaction generally seems preferable to a more complete isolation.
Although, more and more, I am seriously reconsidering that premise.
But that’s not germane to this discussion, as whether or not I choose to continue operating under that premise doesn’t change the fact that I have operated under it for most of my life.
Pretending to care less than I do has certainly done something to me. However, observing a good number of people venturing even less of an emotional investment than my heavily risk-assessed one has also done something to me.
I’m not entirely certain which is worse.
Although distinguishing between the two is likely beside the point. Taken together, they’re especially problematic.
Dispassionate ambivalence becomes a goal. An attainable and desirable shared experience that connects us through something not quite substantial enough to pass for misery.
This is likely the closest I’ve come to explaining what I meant with the phrase “Ghosts become flesh”. It was an intentionally ambiguous turn of phrase. Largely because I wanted to guard someone’s feelings, I felt I needed an extremely backhanded reference to an instance where it was suggested that I seemed “dead inside”.
Ironically enough, I’ve given a lot of thought to that statement. Which would be rebuttal enough, if that was my aim. But it’s not.
Focusing on serious consideration, I keep entertaining that colloquialism with the same question:
And?
As I don’t wish to sound anymore flippant than I actually am, I feel as though I should qualify that statement with an anecdote.
My younger sister is nothing if not vivacious. During the time that she and I took grade ten Japanese together, she levelled the dead-inside accusation against one of our classmates. I can’t recall the guy’s name, but he certainly carried himself with a familiar sense of emotional detachment. Despite the fact that my sister’s remark was intentioned as such, it never sat well with me. Mostly because I knew it to be entirely baseless. Ultimately, everyone in that room had to know it to be so, as well.
The only people who are truly dead on the inside are also dead on the outside.
To suggest otherwise is emotionally discriminatory.
Obviously, to a certain degree, we have to be discriminating in this regard if we wish to associate with individuals with whom we share similar emotional experiences. This pursuit helps us to validate our own emotions.
But calling someone dead inside is an explicit invalidation of his or her emotions. And, personally, I don’t see how such a statement validates anybody’s emotions. Or, for that matter, invalidates them in any way that’s at all constructive.
I never told her this, but even though my sister didn’t call me dead inside, I felt that if it applied to my classmate it also applied to me. I still feel that way.
And I don’t think that thought has ever encouraged me to be open. Until, perhaps, now.
Without establishing a well-developed case for this premise at the moment, I believe we are fostering a kind of cult of positivity in certain respects and circles. To a degree, this makes sense. The opposite climate is also out there, and it’s probably still dominant.
However, as we all know, two wrongs don’t make a right. Insisting that reality is all sunshine and lollipops, and must therefore be viewed as such, is actively and willfully ignorant. It devalues negative experience. And, frankly, I cannot think of a more dangerous endeavour.
Negative experience is painful and arduous. But it is valuable. Denying that value only serves to make hardship worthless. It makes life’s difficult moments seem even less endurable.
Living with a mood disorder means that my thoughts and emotions are not pervasively pleasant or positive. It’s not uncommon for them to be downright deluded and desperate.
I suppose, as long as the finest point we’re putting on this topic is a (very broad) DSM label, it’s probably also not inaccurate to describe me as dead inside. So, my question stands.
And?
This is not a glamourous experience. And it’s not particularly comfortable. But it is my experience.
It is the life with which I have been blessed. I sometimes lose sight of that, but so far, I am still resolved to value it.
I usually avoid sharing my thoughts and feelings directly, because they often tend to upset people. I don’t expect anyone to enjoy the way that I experience things.
But I am starting to think it’s about damn time people respected my right to experience them as I will.
HR Lincoln 