Flight over Fight
For most of my life, when I was presented with anything fearful or unpleasant, I would usually just stare it down. Things only really were hurtful or negative on the first pass, but not so much on the second thought, the third remembrance... and after a while, it would be nothing at all. I hadn't read Dune at that point, but I recognized one of the mantras in it later in life when I did read it. “I will let the fear path through me, and in the end only I will remain...” Yes. All fears were worth facing then, and I felt confident in taking them down.
At some point in my adult life this strategy began to fail me. About a year ago, I found fears that could not be faced down. I found problems that upon analysis, bore no resolution.... philosophically, emotionally... I was changing. I always considered myself, and have been considered strong to fault. I became weak in a lot of ways upon finding these limits. I became restless... distractable, emotional... at odds in general. For the first time in my life, which from what I understand should have been very stressful up until that point, I set up a door in my mind to bar me from thinking about things I found too painful to remember. It wasn't one of the things that were supposed to break me... those things I overcame. It was something far more simple... And it was something that by coming to Ithaca, I thought I could finally overcome.
Sorry for the generality... but anyone could really read this.
It's amazing how adrenaline works. I've been told that if people are primed to experience general arousal in one way or another, they can interpret their emotions in vastly different ways. The urge to fight and flight are often intertwined and shifting, especially if you add any further shades of love, betrayal... whatever nuances we might give names too. They are all similar: just excitement which we interpret from the context. Something between never wanting to look away and never wanting to look back. I've always cherished that feeling, especially when it is nuanced and intricate. I suppose we all do. Good stories are filled with ups and down... conflict and pent up desires. We get very bored when we know how to feel... when everything clicks together and what is right is also what we want. That's when stories end, when we paste on “The End” and have no desire to continue thinking about what happens next or living in such a post-script. To continue a thought, to continue feeling content in a new chapter of life, we need a new conflict, and new intricacies... otherwise we just can't live with ourselves.
Jesse, I assume you know what I mean when I tell you you are right.
My friend Doug advised me to face my fears... and never let anything to do with fear be a factor in any of my decisions. If it wasn't for the fact that Ithaca remained so alluringly dark and challenging to me, it would be an easy, logical choice for me to go to grad school here. The advisor is perfect, the program is a challenging, but good fit for me... and if wasn't for a little bit of drama I can't get out of my head, I'd probably be much more up to the task.
So I tried to face my fears. I faced them with strength, with... love even. They didn't budge, but I found myself giving way. I found myself wearing down little by little. At some point in the not so distant past, I surrendered. I retreated. I did all I could. I fought it. I changed strategies and faced off again. I fought passively and defensively... and in the end, when nothing else would work, I threw in the last ditch efforts, and turned to run away. There's less confusion now between fight and flight... I did my best, and flight won over fight. So now what?
The sad thing is, I have no where to go... it's hard to satisfy the physiological need for retreat when I have such little power to change anything. I can change myself, and I do... but that does not solve these particular issues no matter how I rearrange my mind. It's my surroundings, the things outside of me, connected to me... that needs to change. If I could pack up and change my physical location, the need would be met. I suppose I could do that, but I don't want to sacrifice my career... at least it's not to the stage yet. I know I'm in the right place, and I'm waiting for something... just waiting for something to change. In reality, I can really do is run around in circles inside my head wishing for things to be different. It just leads to emo bullshit really. I really don't have time to be moody or stagnant, and I hate finding myself that way.
For a moment last week, walking down the gorge trail with a friend, I found a moment of aesthetic rapture. It was a rare moment for me these days, because I used to live between many such moments. I find a lot of pretty little sights down the gorge on walks to and from school quite frequently, but this was one pointed out to me, and because it had been passed over once, it was all the more beautiful. That's just how passed-over things work.
“Stand right here”
And so I did. And everything about that moment was truly beautiful. The water, the setting sun. The wind... and the person downstream. I wanted to hold onto it all forever, to stop in that moment, never reaching the bottom of that trail... But if I slowed, if I stopped... the reality I envisioned could not be thus manipulated. All I could do was keep walking, and hope that such moments of inspiration would come again. Serenity can never be captured...
A documentary on the Dalai Lama I just watched recently talked against this feeling I just described. Nothing is immortal. No desire should be immortal. All beautiful things are on loan to us, and by seeking to capture them we only cause ourselves pain. The Tibetan monks work for weeks on beautiful sand mandalas, and upon completion, release the colored sand into the rivers. I would make a horrible monk. Aside from the boobs even... There is much in my life that is constantly shifting, but other things which of whisper eternal and real desire. Thus far these things have only met up with the likes of all that is temporary. It's kinda lonely like that. I feel very out of place among my own kind when I think of these things... like a different sub-species, or a teenager.
I walk home a lot telling myself my time would be spent logically and diligently, and faced down the clusterfuck in my head. Generally speaking, the clusterfuck usually wins. I find myself without inspiration, and I tell myself I will wake up and feel different. I don't, so I tell myself I will get to my office and feel different... When I find myself wasting time staring at papers rearranging themselves into more emotionally salient topics, I tell myself I just need to walk home to feel different... I never am... I'm trapped, and I'm just running with no where to go.
At some point in my adult life this strategy began to fail me. About a year ago, I found fears that could not be faced down. I found problems that upon analysis, bore no resolution.... philosophically, emotionally... I was changing. I always considered myself, and have been considered strong to fault. I became weak in a lot of ways upon finding these limits. I became restless... distractable, emotional... at odds in general. For the first time in my life, which from what I understand should have been very stressful up until that point, I set up a door in my mind to bar me from thinking about things I found too painful to remember. It wasn't one of the things that were supposed to break me... those things I overcame. It was something far more simple... And it was something that by coming to Ithaca, I thought I could finally overcome.
Sorry for the generality... but anyone could really read this.
It's amazing how adrenaline works. I've been told that if people are primed to experience general arousal in one way or another, they can interpret their emotions in vastly different ways. The urge to fight and flight are often intertwined and shifting, especially if you add any further shades of love, betrayal... whatever nuances we might give names too. They are all similar: just excitement which we interpret from the context. Something between never wanting to look away and never wanting to look back. I've always cherished that feeling, especially when it is nuanced and intricate. I suppose we all do. Good stories are filled with ups and down... conflict and pent up desires. We get very bored when we know how to feel... when everything clicks together and what is right is also what we want. That's when stories end, when we paste on “The End” and have no desire to continue thinking about what happens next or living in such a post-script. To continue a thought, to continue feeling content in a new chapter of life, we need a new conflict, and new intricacies... otherwise we just can't live with ourselves.
Jesse, I assume you know what I mean when I tell you you are right.
My friend Doug advised me to face my fears... and never let anything to do with fear be a factor in any of my decisions. If it wasn't for the fact that Ithaca remained so alluringly dark and challenging to me, it would be an easy, logical choice for me to go to grad school here. The advisor is perfect, the program is a challenging, but good fit for me... and if wasn't for a little bit of drama I can't get out of my head, I'd probably be much more up to the task.
So I tried to face my fears. I faced them with strength, with... love even. They didn't budge, but I found myself giving way. I found myself wearing down little by little. At some point in the not so distant past, I surrendered. I retreated. I did all I could. I fought it. I changed strategies and faced off again. I fought passively and defensively... and in the end, when nothing else would work, I threw in the last ditch efforts, and turned to run away. There's less confusion now between fight and flight... I did my best, and flight won over fight. So now what?
The sad thing is, I have no where to go... it's hard to satisfy the physiological need for retreat when I have such little power to change anything. I can change myself, and I do... but that does not solve these particular issues no matter how I rearrange my mind. It's my surroundings, the things outside of me, connected to me... that needs to change. If I could pack up and change my physical location, the need would be met. I suppose I could do that, but I don't want to sacrifice my career... at least it's not to the stage yet. I know I'm in the right place, and I'm waiting for something... just waiting for something to change. In reality, I can really do is run around in circles inside my head wishing for things to be different. It just leads to emo bullshit really. I really don't have time to be moody or stagnant, and I hate finding myself that way.
For a moment last week, walking down the gorge trail with a friend, I found a moment of aesthetic rapture. It was a rare moment for me these days, because I used to live between many such moments. I find a lot of pretty little sights down the gorge on walks to and from school quite frequently, but this was one pointed out to me, and because it had been passed over once, it was all the more beautiful. That's just how passed-over things work.
“Stand right here”
And so I did. And everything about that moment was truly beautiful. The water, the setting sun. The wind... and the person downstream. I wanted to hold onto it all forever, to stop in that moment, never reaching the bottom of that trail... But if I slowed, if I stopped... the reality I envisioned could not be thus manipulated. All I could do was keep walking, and hope that such moments of inspiration would come again. Serenity can never be captured...
A documentary on the Dalai Lama I just watched recently talked against this feeling I just described. Nothing is immortal. No desire should be immortal. All beautiful things are on loan to us, and by seeking to capture them we only cause ourselves pain. The Tibetan monks work for weeks on beautiful sand mandalas, and upon completion, release the colored sand into the rivers. I would make a horrible monk. Aside from the boobs even... There is much in my life that is constantly shifting, but other things which of whisper eternal and real desire. Thus far these things have only met up with the likes of all that is temporary. It's kinda lonely like that. I feel very out of place among my own kind when I think of these things... like a different sub-species, or a teenager.
I walk home a lot telling myself my time would be spent logically and diligently, and faced down the clusterfuck in my head. Generally speaking, the clusterfuck usually wins. I find myself without inspiration, and I tell myself I will wake up and feel different. I don't, so I tell myself I will get to my office and feel different... When I find myself wasting time staring at papers rearranging themselves into more emotionally salient topics, I tell myself I just need to walk home to feel different... I never am... I'm trapped, and I'm just running with no where to go.
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