OK, I’m just going to say it—I struggle with anger, self-judgment and perfectionism. Supposably I’m a writer but I rarely publish anything personal anymore because as soon as I finish a piece, I find too many things wrong with it and with myself. It’s like looking in the mirror and hating what I see. Additionally, as I find myself growing into a bitter, pessimistic old man at an accelerated rate—I’m only 38, but I could fit in with an Arizona retirement community—I’ve learned that, in this Internet age, anything a person says or does online can and will be used against them, especially if the author happens to be a middle-age white male.
Some people have probably judged me for not actively commenting about the the Black Lives Matter movement and all the rest. (For the record, I agree that the police response to the BLM movements is in stark contrast to the passive handling of anti-mask militias and the attack on the Capitol Jan. 6.) It’s not that I have no emotional stake in the matters—it’s that I have too much emotion; I’m so angry about so many of these issues that it only makes me angrier when I write about them. I am teetering on outright violence, as is the entire country and much of the world. That is not a flame I want to stoke. I try to abide by an ethos that stipulates, “If you don’t have anything constructive to share, then keep it to yourself.” Fanning anger is not constructive unless you’re actively fanning it toward a real solution or insight. And frankly, we’ve had too much dry brush and gasoline these past five-plus years, and here we are facing another hot summer of drought.
But it is my hope that I will actually summon the guts to resume posting on this dinky little blog as a way to begin moving past the perfectionism that often paralyzes me like a nerve block injected into my spine: the fear of being wrong, perceived as stupid; rejected; cast out; dismissed as garbage.
People will judge me no matter what. They will judge me for investing in therapy; or for not going to therapy. They will judge me for the clothes I wear, for what I eat or drink, the cars I drive. The list goes on. That’s a given, because in spite of all the high-hearted things we strive to be, much of humanity boils down to a bunch of judgy fucks, just like me, because making judgments is a natural impulse for self protection, and also a way to pass the boredom of a mundane social hour. I’m not perfect, nor the best, nor smartest at anything—and neither are you. If we can begin to accept that all of us have flaws and vulnerabilities, maybe we can rediscover some mutual respect in this world—this world in which our differences are being exploited to advance the interests of those would would rule this world for themselves (Fuck Trump!). We’re good at faking courtesy in person but we tend to completely lose our composure online—stop it! So much of the time we’re only exacerbating mental illness and misinformation. Which I’m desperately trying not to do here…
In posting this—if I do post this raw, barely edited mind dump—consider it an effort of radical self-acceptance; a way of taking one little step forward, because standing still in a desert doesn’t help me find salvation, and it doesn’t help me grow as a person who has the potential to offer something positive. I’m tired of thinking the worst of humanity and, by extension, of myself.
So here we go: let’s dare to believe in ourselves and each other; let’s dare to hold onto visions of the best possible outcomes in spite of our imperfections and ongoing setbacks. Let’s not be distracted by agents of hate and fear. Let’s instead shape our world views based on the people around us, the neighbors we trust and assist, the colleagues who stand at our backs, the local communities. That’s where growth and change takes place. Grass roots. Together we can buffer each other against the raging fires that are fueled by our perceived divisions.
First, I have to make peace with myself.