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The two are blended almost seamlessly into a ball of anxiety, doubt and every protective measure you have learnt over the years to make sure what happened never happens again. Your dreams turn easily into nightmares. You drift off and end up thinking about something that happened over ten years ago.
You are constantly living the story of your past, as your brain tries to construct and reconstruct it into something you can digest. Your every action is dictated by a hedgehog bristled protective instinct to stay safe, and whilst Brown may suggest that the stories of our past are largely irrelevant to our current wellbeing, it is damn near impossible to objectively take that on board when you live your past every day, from the moment you wake up to the moment you eventually fall asleep and into your nightmares.
It is true that we construct narratives out of our lives, that we have wants, hopes, goals and dreams that may be entirely unrealistic. We seek happiness outside of ourselves, in friendship, acceptance and relationships, platonic or otherwise oddly the platonic was weirdly disparaged, which I found difficult to comprehend as my only meaningful relationships have been platonic, after all, it is very difficult to date when you cannot leave the house without functionally sedating yourself.
In deciding a few years ago that theory of mind was in fact a very real thing, and that other people had exceedingly, marvellously, miraculously complex internal lives all of their very own, I came to the conclusion that if I cannot be happy, then at least other people can be slightly less miserable. To that end, I treated every smile I could get from my nephew as golden, every giggle from my niece as a reward, every ALL CAPS response from my best friend as a job well done.
I wrote at once both selfishly and selflessly, a desire to be seen and remembered, for my work to somehow one day end up on charity shop shelves, sandwiched between dog-earred copes of Fifty Shades of Grey or some other nonsense. The selfless was in spreading stories of love, hope and okay, admittedly, sometimes cannibalism. The mantra I found that best fit was simply: create beautiful things.
Less simply: leave the world in a better place than you found it in. In two words, ultimately though, it was: be kind. In accepting a narrative, things were bad, things will in all likelihood continue to be bad, but maybe I can make things slightly less bad for other people, I found more purpose than in striving for a happiness of my own.
Maybe it is selfish, to want with such fierceness, for my niblings to live a life where the bad cannot touch them, cannot in any way impede their lives. For my cat to live a life where his rotund and fluffy self can make happy sleeping noises all day every day and never have to worry about, well, anything.
Everything feels more or less decidedly less than fine. No amount of complicated philosophy as someone who took Philosophy at AS Level and failed it in a rather spectacular fashion, the sheer amount of, to me, dense philosophical discussion within the chapters I read made me feel intensely stupid, like maybe I was too stupid to be deserving of happiness could simplify matters.
It was in parts bewildering, indecipherable and finally, genuinely upsetting. The problem is, I tried, I really did. The paragraphs of philosophy wandered into my brain, turned over a few objects, ran a finger across a dusty surface, and decided this was not a place they wanted to stay, and in fact, they were frankly insulted at the idea. In other words: it did not stick.
I do understand, that objectively I am stupid, that my IQ is slightly above average, but that fundamentally I am not the sharpest cookie in the cookie jar.
A better natured cat you will not find, but there is little going on upstairs. Lacking his ginger locks and distinguished features, I find myself without even that comfort.
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