cw: crying, money, cats, weather, family of origin, religion, messiah complex
New month, new essay, what the HECK how can it possibly already be November? For fuck’s sake? It feels like it was just Mabon and now it’s after Samhain. What.
My thoughts have not been very coherent over the past few weeks. Yesterday I spent a lot of time panicking about money things because my money trauma got extremely triggered, today I spent time napping and then crying at The Fellowship of the Ring — particularly the scenes in Lothlorien with Galadriel — and for the next five hours or so I will be doing laundry because we have a senior cat who is so particular about where he is okay to pee that sometimes he just pees where he feels safe (I think that’s why he does it; it might be that he just can’t hold it any more?).
Do not let the great emptiness of Khazad-dūm fill your heart, Gimli son of Gloīn, for the world has grown dark and full of peril, and in all lands, love is now mingled with grief.
Galadriel of Lothlorien
So, you know. You can cry too if you would like. I think Galadriel would be just fine with that, and she might also encourage you to take some rest while you’re at it.
Over the past couple of weeks, the weather here in Michigan has gone from Still Summer to Whoa It’s Foggy directly into Is That Snow?! Fuck. My body is clearly trying its best to adjust to the change in barometric pressure, pollen levels, temperature, and humidity levels, which resulted in approximately five days’ worth of migraines, and some were even all-night migraines too.
I like knowing how to treat my various physical illnesses when they come up, but the transition period between seasons seems to fuck me up in that regard. Is that too many antihistamines? Did I actually not take enough? Have I drunk enough water? Is it time to turn on my humidifier again? Do I feel like this because I’m stressed or because the weather is wonky? DOES IT EVEN MATTER?!
I received two emails, one yesterday and one today, from the VINE service in Florida telling me that the Florida Department of Corrections wasn’t reporting to them, and then to tell me that they’d resumed reporting. I signed up for notifications eight years ago when my brother went into custody, so that I’d always know where he was. A few years after that, he stopped writing me letters back, at the same time that most of my immediate family stopped talking to me because I came out as queer and also that I am polyamorous and had just started a relationship with a poly person.
Sometimes, when you tell the truth, the people you thought loved you the most will prove instead that they loved your behavior more than they loved you.
I’m no longer an evangelical Christian, not even an almost-evangelical-Christian — which I was for quite a few years before I finally found what I was looking for. The Christian god and I had a mutually amicable breakup. If my life had played out differently, I am convinced that I would still have found a way to give of myself for the good of those than need it, within a framework that cautions me away from the self-destructive parts of a messiah complex.
If you’re like me and you already have a messiah complex installed in your brain’s metaphorical hard drive (I got mine as a kid so I’ve had it a nice long time now), allow me to point out some self-destructive things that people like us are in the habit of doing:
Not asking for help
Assuming complete responsibility for something that you haven’t actually been asked to do
Assuming complete responsibility for something that is a shared responsibility
Not asking for help
NOT ASKING FOR HELP
Guilt over results that you were not and are not able to do anything about
Collecting other peoples’ problems into a basket until it’s too heavy to carry, and then trying to carry it
Taking it personally when someone else is having a hard time (unless it’s actually your fault that they’re having a hard time)
Not asking for help
Without trying to be clever, I am serious about the potential consequences of not asking for help and what that actually says about how you view yourself and your responsibilities. Even if you ARE completely responsible for something, you can — and should, I think — ask for help. Ask for support, ask for time to vent verbally, ask for a hug, ask for honest feedback, ask for a reality check. You aren’t alone; but the more alone you believe that you are, the more your messiah complex will be able to dictate your feelings and choices.
Even more helpful, look for other people with a messiah complex so that you can take turns lovingly hurting each others’ feelings by pointing out things like that’s not your job to do or NOW IS THE TIME TO ASK FOR HELP, HINT HINT. I’ve found people like that and they are an invaluable source of comfort and truth for me.
The ability to be this honest with yourself takes a lot of mental and emotional groundwork. It takes therapy. It takes looking at yourself and your choices as truthfully as you possibly can. It takes brutal honesty, but not the kind that you’re using to flagellate yourself. It takes being willing to be wrong as much as you desire to be right.
And now I feel better about this essay, because it started out jumbled up and ended with something I feel strongly about. I hope it helps you. Yes, you. Put down that basket for at least a few minutes.
P.S. you may have figured out by now that most of my essay titles are taken from song lyrics. Today’s is from this song:
cw: talk of suicide, mental health issues, and being a white person
I watched Bo Burnham’s INSIDE for the first time a little while after it came out, and it hit me square in the feelings. Not just existential-dread feelings, not just climate-disaster feelings, but also feelings I have about being a white person in a society that raised me to ignore people that weren’t like me as a matter of course and as a matter of self-protection.
Before I get started on what will undoubtedly be a self-absorbed piece trying not to be a self-absorbed piece, please watch the following video because it is much smarter, better explained, and overall more interesting than anything I have to say about this topic:
I watched the above video (click here if you can’t see it) and immediately afterward I watched a video of a white woman, ranking the songs in the special from Existential Bop (least life-ruining) to Life Ruining (obviously life-ruining), and there was something so … predictable about a white woman explaining her visceral reactions to songs from a special after I had just spent thirty-six minutes watching a black man — F.D Signifier — talk about the phenomenon he’s identified as underpinning the special: White Liberal Performative Art. Much like INSIDE, I am going to need to rewatch F.D Signifier’s video again at least a couple of times in order to grasp what he’s talking about, because I think I got some of it but definitely not all of it. I might talk about philosophy but that doesn’t mean I understand it.
BO BURNHAM’S INSIDE: IN THIS ESSAY I WILL
The special itself, which is on Netflix (and right now Netflix is problematic because of their response to the feedback about their Dave Chappelle comedy special) is not just music. There are spoken comedy bits in between songs and there is a lot of interesting camera work that I found fascinating, and there’s also Bo’s hair, which continues to grow throughout the entire special and is particularly interesting when the last song in the special, “Goodbye,” is filmed when his hair is the shortest, which means he recorded “Goodbye” at the beginning of the process of creating and shooting and singing and producing. I don’t know if that’s meant to be a clever pandering to people that notice things and think they Mean Something, or if it’s meant to indicate that the entire special loops in on itself like a moebius strip of existential dread, or if it doesn’t mean anything except that his hair is short and he wrote the show before shooting it, even though overall the special almost feels like he’s writing it as he thinks of it. Which is also a thing that many people, specifically white people in this context, tend to do: we speak before we’ve thought about what we’re about to say.
ANYWAY.
When I’m not listening to the songs on Spotify, I’m watching the special on Netflix again, or I’m thinking about watching it again while the songs loop around in my head as near-constant earworms. I’m not going to deconstruct each song, just a few of the ones that have affected me the most.
“CONTENT”
This first song is one of my most favorite:
If you’d have told me a year ago That I’d be locked inside of my home (ah, ah, ah) I would have told you, a year ago “Interesting, now leave me alone”
Sorry that I look like a mess (Ah, ah, ah) I booked a haircut, but it got rescheduled Robert’s been a little depressed, no And so, today, I’m gonna try just
Getting up, sitting down, going back to work Might not help, but still, it couldn’t hurt I’m sitting down, writing jokes, singing silly songs I’m sorry I was gone
But look, I made you some content Daddy made you your favorite, open wide Here comes the content It’s a beautiful day to stay inside
‘Content’ by Bo Burnham
I’m a chronically ill person that is allergic to the outside. Well, that’s true, and also incorrect. I have MCAS, Mast Cell Activation Syndrome, and what that generally means is that certain factors — symptom triggers — flood my body with histamine, so I experience what is an allergic reaction or even acute anaphylaxis, even though I am not actually allergic to the things that set off the MCAS flare. I realize this doesn’t make much sense, but I promise that the difference matters to me and to the way my doctor and I have created my treatment plan. Everyone with MCAS has a different experience and a different specific symptom trigger list. A selection from my list is as follows: direct sunlight, humidity, extreme heat or cold, pollen, bad air quality, and mold, which are abundantly prevalent in Michigan almost all year. The only season that’s comfortable for me (usually) is autumn, because the sun is not as direct, the temperature is in a comfortable zone, humidity is at a low level, and leaf mold is much less significantly present than the pollen of spring and summertime.
The combination of quarantine measures and MCAS means that I’ve barely left the house for the past eighteen months. It has been difficult to be stuck inside. It has been a blessing to know that I’m safe in here, that my air purifier and ceiling fan and air conditioning and daily meds help me stay safe. And staying inside is also deeply upsetting, for both chronic illness reasons and for pandemic reasons. I don’t want to leave the house but I want to be able to leave the house. I don’t necessarily want to be around other people but I want the option to do so. Staying inside is a convoluted concept that I am continually working through therapeutically. My hair is a mess, literally because I can’t safely get it cut by the person I trust with my hair. My depression has deepened and my optimism has tanked. I’ve wanted to create content since March 2020 — I love writing and making things for other people to see or read or interact with — but it’s been almost impossible to do that while being in a worried, scared, traumatized head space. This song describes my life. I’ve only been able to start writing regularly again for the past month or so, which means that it had been almost a year and a half before I found my voice again.
“COMEDY”
A selection from this wonderfully awful song:
The world is changing The planet’s heating up What the fuck is going on? Rearranging It’s like everything happened all at once Um, what the fuck is going on? The people rising in the streets The war, the drought The more I look, the more I see nothing to joke about Is comedy over? Should I leave you alone? ‘Cause, really, who’s gonna go for joking at a time like this? Should I be joking at a time like this? I wanna help to leave this world better than I found it And I fear that comedy won’t help And the fear is not unfounded Should I stop trying to be funny? Should I give away my money? No! What do I do?
… If you wake up in a house that’s full of smoke Don’t panic, call me and I’ll tell you a joke If you see white men dressed in white cloaks Don’t panic, call me and I’ll tell you a joke Oh, shit Should I be joking at a time like this? If you start to smell burning toast You’re having a stroke or overcooking your toast
‘Comedy’ by Bo Burnham
I’ve skipped a lot of the lyrics that are about the self-reflective impulses of white people who know that society is fucked up for everyone that isn’t them, and how easy it is for us white people to get bored with either shutting the fuck up or trying to do better. We don’t suffer, at least not directly, so it’s as easy for us to ignore what’s either literally or figuratively on fire as it is for us to wake up and forget that it’s someone else’s birthday. (Yes I am generalizing all American white people together, because I think that’s one of many correct responses to this piece of art I am trying to interrogate)
I resonate deeply with the wish to “help to leave this world better than I found it.” I do my best, I learn from the mistakes I will always inevitably make, and I keep trying; but it is discouraging and sometimes seems like the only way to fix something — as if fixing it is even my fucking job or what is being asked of me — is to sacrifice myself, which is inherently selfish, I think. Who benefits from my self-sacrifice? My ego, mainly.
For about four years, from 2015 to 2019, I struggled to support and help my second oldest kid, who ended up being diagnosed with Cluster B personality disorder, although nominally his psychiatrists and doctors recognized that it was definitely borderline personality disorder along with a couple of other personality disorders that can be grouped under the heading of Cluster B. For four years, there were endless, sometimes weekly, trips to the ER or the police for suicide attempts, ideation, violent outbursts, self harm, illegal activity, and what seemed like honest cries for help. I had to quit my job in order to be available for the emotional and mental drain of taking care of him, and I wasn’t able to be present for my other kids the way I would have wanted. I poured love and effort into him like pouring water onto the ground: it gets wet but what’s the point? It does almost nothing for that person.
So when I hear a bit about joking when the house is on fire, I genuinely feel that, because sometimes the only way to get through something horrifying is to laugh. In a later song, the lyrics are flipped so that the singer is being trapped in a burning house and calling you up so you can tell them a joke; and the concept of taking trauma and letting it direct your ability to make an effort to make a difference in the world is, I think, one of the main things I took from those four years of hell.
“HOW THE WORLD WORKS”
This song got me right in the white-person feels. Socko the literal sock puppet contributes lyrics that are extremely true and peel back our intentional ignorance to that truth, even though a bit of it is sort of ridiculous and maybe extreme.
The simple narrative taught in every history class Is demonstrably false and pedagogically classist Don’t you know the world is built with blood? And genocide and exploitation The global network of capital essentially functions To separate the worker from the means of production And the FBI killed Martin Luther King Private property’s inherently theft And neoliberal fascists are destroying the left And every politician, every cop on the street Protects the interests of the pedophilic corporate elite
‘How the World Works’ by Bo Burnham
I don’t know about the FBI bit, but the rest of it? Ugh. Yes. I wish it wasn’t true but it is. The sock puppet is a clever, destructive externalization of ugly truth, and at the end of the song Bo pulls the sock off his hand, effectively silencing Socko because he can only exist when he’s being worn on Bo’s hand.
Do you feel bad yet? I feel bad.
That’s pretty intense No shit What can I do to help? Read a book or something, I don’t know Just don’t burden me with the responsibility of educating you It’s incredibly exhausting I’m sorry, Socko I was just trying to become a better person Why do you rich fucking white people Insist on seeing every socio-political conflict Through the myopic lens of your own self-actualization? This isn’t about you So either get with it, or get out of the fucking way
‘How the World Works’ by Bo Burnham
I feel bad AND it’s not anyone else’s job to teach me how to be better. That’s my job. Read the books, shut the fuck up, and interrupt my friends and family when they say a thing that I do know is a problem.
“LOOK WHO’S INSIDE AGAIN”
This is a short one but, again, UGH. Ouch.
… Well, well Look who’s inside again Went out to look for a reason to hide again Well, well Buddy, you found it Now, come out with your hands up We’ve got you surrounded
‘Look Who’s Inside Again’ by Bo Burnham
Like I said earlier in this piece, I am inside a lot. A LOT. And there are times when what I’m doing is looking for reasons why I can’t do anything else or do anything about it, but there’s a creeping unease and a sense that there’s something wrong. If only I could put my finger on it, I could ignore it more easily.
“WELCOME TO THE INTERNET”
Welp. So. I have thought of myself as an ‘elder millennial,’ because there are so many similarities between my thoughts and feelings and reactions and the thoughts, feelings and reactions of millennials. I recently discovered that I’m probably more Gen X than Millennial — I was born in 1978 — and these lyrics just felt like a punch in the gut. I grew up without the internet being ubiquitous. I played outside. I did farm chores. I was terrified of my father because he is an abusive shitbag (this has nothing to do with what year it was, it’s a universal experience of kids with shitbag parents). I watched Microsoft’s explanation of WiNdOwS in confusion, more than twice. I had a Juno email account where I received approximately zero emails. I started learning to code websites when I was in my very early twenties and already had two kids, to cope with my feelings when my first husband up and fucking disappeared. I was part of building the internet into what it is today, and at the exact same time I am kind of horrified at what it’s become. I’ve been on Twitter since 2007. What does that even mean? Does it matter??
The lifespan of a meme is practically nanoseconds compared to how long LOLcats and the ORLY owl and All your base lasted. My kids talk in memes, and I used to understand all the references, and now I understand about seventy percent of them, generously.
I’m just going to leave this here:
Could I interest you in everything? All of the time? A little bit of everything All of the time Apathy’s a tragedy And boredom is a crime Anything and everything All of the time
You know, it wasn’t always like this
Not very long ago Just before your time Right before the towers fell, circa ’99 This was catalogs Travel blogs A chat room or two We set our sights and spent our nights Waiting For you, you, insatiable you Mommy let you use her iPad You were barely two And it did all the things We designed it to do
Now look at you, oh
Look at you, you, you Unstoppable, watchable Your time is now Your inside’s out Honey, how you grew And if we stick together Who knows what we’ll do It was always the plan To put the world in your hand
‘Welcome to the Internet’ by Bo Burnham
So. Yeah. Maybe dial-up internet was a bad idea, actually.
“ALL EYES ON ME”
The themes of these songs, along with Bo’s hair, become both increasingly depressing (and painfully truthful) and a fucking mess, because that’s what life is now, it’s a depressing fucking mess when you’re honest with yourself and stop pretending.
Are you feeling nervous? Are you having fun? It’s almost over It’s just begun Don’t overthink this Look in my eye Don’t be scared, don’t be shy Come on in, the water’s fine
We’re goin’ to go where everybody knows Everybody knows, everybody, oh We’re goin’ to go where everybody knows Everybody knows
Get your fuckin’ hands up Get on out of your seat All eyes on me, all eyes on me Ay, come on, get your fuckin’ hands up Get on out of your seat All eyes on me, all eyes on me, yeah Heads down, pray for me Heads down now, pray for me Get your fuckin’ hands up Get on out of your seat All eyes on me, all eyes on me
‘All Eyes on Me’ by Bo Burnham
What’s almost over? What’s just begun? What are we praying for? Where are we going? Let’s follow someone else’s instructions and fly this planet right into the side of a mountain so it can break and burn and become ashes.
Are you depressed yet? This special fucking ruined me, and I keep watching it, and I have some of the songs on my playlists, and I can’t stop feeling like part of me is alive inside the special because of how true and close to the skin it feels.
I don’t have the ability to explain any of this or dissect any of this any better than I have here. I really do recommend watching the video I linked at the beginning, because it’s much more succinct and is able to use a perspective that I can’t use because I’m me, I’m inside, I’m stuck in here and I’m trying to do better and sometimes it takes living inside my head for long enough to realize I’m being ridiculous so that I can stop doing it.
I’d love to know what you thought of INSIDE, if you watched it, or if you have things you want to say about it whether or not you watched it. If you’ve read this far, thank you and I’m sorry.
In the past several weeks, I’ve become aware that I don’t have a very good idea of what gives me joy, what makes me happy. I do the same things in the same order most days, and whether it is happy-making has not occurred to me in a while.
Our most senior cat has begun his leaving journey. Sinking into the mindfulness and quietness of self that deathwork requires of me has helped me understand of where to find some of my joy. I truly feel deeply right when I am sitting in contemplative silence near an actively dying person, knowing that the mystery of death is not a puzzle I need to solve, or a problem to fix. Caring for grieving loved ones also leads me toward a sense of rightness. It is as if I am an open space that can hold grief without internalizing it.
There is nothing else that I’ve experienced that is like the blessed relief of knowing that I don’t need to fix something. I realize this says a lot about my messiah complex and my trauma-induced need to find control wherever I can, but the freedom that comes from letting what will be, to just be — I don’t have words for how it feels. Maybe there is not a need to describe everything; maybe it is okay for a mystery like death to remain a mystery. Maybe it is also right to allow myself not to know all things. Maybe I should bring this up with my therapist.
I’ve spent the last eighteen months — and many months prior to it, if I’m being honest — feeling sorry for myself, feeling grief, feeling trapped, feeling forgotten, feeling despair. There is nothing inherently wrong with feelings. It’s what you do with your feelings that matters: do you let them direct your thoughts and actions, or do you sit with the truth and allow yourself both the room to heal and the freedom to get up and do something else? Do you let your feelings write the story of your days, or do you take the pen and write it yourself, word by word, thought by thought, present and aware of each letter and each sentence?
Here’s a list of what I know so far about what brings me joy:
Listening to music, finding new music, rediscovering music, making playlists, using those playlists to amplify a feeling or to introduce a new one
The process of knitting, the feel of the yarn as it slides over my fingers, the satisfaction of creation
Seeing a book and knowing that I want it in my library; collecting those books in various ways: audio, digital, paper
Writing and rewriting, journaling, the feeling of paper and the way my fountain pen sings across it
Quietness, thoughtfulness, mindfulness, meditation, stillness; pursuing knowledge and sitting with it, turning it over in my mind to see its facets
Showing up and being seen, being appreciated, being admired, knowing that who and what I am is interesting to someone else
Relationships that are healthy because they are honest
Keeping my word: doing what I say I’ll do when I say I’ll do it; living in a truthful state of being, as much as possible; being responsible for things because I am trusted to do those things
Playing computer games, playing console games, matching a game to a difficult-to-describe mood, choosing correctly, learning from mistakes, starting over
Trees. All of them.
The scent of an evening in any season; being outside while dusk falls and melts into night; fog; the smell of rain; being barefoot on the earth
Maybe I’ve been doing the things that make me happy without realizing that they are the things that can make me happy. Maybe the joy I don’t see or feel is actually the experience of being myself, doing the things I want to do. What challenges me, what changes me, what comforts me. If that’s part of joy, then I think I am further along in this process of discovery than I realized.
I’ve got a ways to go, but this seems like a good start.
[edit from future me: our senior cat is still alive and well, but he sure did give us a scare]
