mirror, mirror

reflecting on the last three years.

I spent three and a half years not working. Most of it was spent alone. There were days I did nothing but listen to music from the moment I woke up to the second I went to sleep. I went for walks whenever I was feeling anxious, bored, or like I was going to lose my mind — which was often. I spent copious amounts of time at various parks: Camperdown park for journaling and crying; the Bay Run I’d ride my bike and listen to Nirvana; Sydney Park I’d sit with Brian (my dog) and drink iced coffees; Ortiz Dog Park for the swings at sunset, a view of the entire city with the mountains nestled in clouds of pink and gold. 

I’d listen to Ra lectures, send voice notes back and forth to internet strangers, stare into space and try to find ways to pass the time. There was so much time. I was in all respects, just finding ways to kill time. There were moments of fleeting joy, of feeling in the flow of something greater than myself. And then there were other times where it felt unbearable. I wanted to scream into a chasm or rip my skin off;  boil me alive because I was so agonizingly bored. The apathy steeped deeper. I didn’t know what to do with myself anymore. I adopted an existentialist nihilist outlook on life, not because it was inherently mine but because it fit my current disposition. 

Is it better to have so much time that the voices in your head become a constant, repetitive circus you’re forced to endure? Or is it better to be so busy that you never have a second to even hear the whines and complaints of the mind? (I’d like to think there’s a sweet spot in the middle — too much time is not good for your sanity, not enough of it will deplete your resources dry.)

I was aimless, floating in the void, no purpose, no intent. What was the point of anything? Why try, why bother, when back to Groundhog Day we go? This is deconditioning (I was told). This is what it’s supposed to feel like, as if you’re shriveling up like a houseplant you haven’t watered in months. All the people on Facebook forums say so. Seven years and it will all make sense. Depression is a normal part of the process. Happiness is for the homogenized “not-self” peasants. We unite in our suffering. We worship at the temple of Human Design, our God, our savior, the system that’s going to fix everything. 

Don’t get me wrong, there were moments of insight, flashes of creativity in the pan. These periods spanned weeks, months if I was lucky. But the clouds of darkness eventually returned in the form of indifference. There was a lot of ruminating. There was a lot of scouring the depths of Netflix, Max, and Hulu (or TikTok when all else fails) for something to dull the mind, a distraction from my internal state, a distraction from what I knew to be true. Entertain me. Feed me with content. Sing me a lullaby to sleep, a deeper sleep than what I experienced whilst awake. 

I wish I could say I slept a lot during this time. But I didn’t. I woke up at strange hours in the night, and eventually, I was not sleeping at all. I didn’t feel anxious but I would wake up with a pounding heart. I couldn’t digest my food properly. I felt stuck in limbo telling myself eventually things will get better, that really this wasn’t so bad. I should be grateful, happy even, to have the life that I do. Having so much time is a luxury. This should be enough. 

You would think it would be the dream to not have to work. Isn’t that supposed to be the shiny carrot at the end, ~retirement~, the freedom from labor? I have found the complete absence of work, of any kind of purpose or goal, is not something that is healthy for me. I have found that my defined ego likes to throw itself into something, whether that is a job, a new experience, a “goal”, a vision greater than myself. It feels good to put my ego to work. It feels good to prove myself. If the ego is about the material world (money, resources, need, support), then it makes sense that all ego beings need to be engaged with it. That’s what breeds confidence and a sense of self-sufficiency. I am hyper aware for the need for material resources; to deny myself of basic necessities, instead relying on other people to fund and support me for my existence, feels awful. For others that might be perfectly correct. It is not for me.

It turns out, taking responsibility for yourself and your life is actually a good thing. People want to feel empowered by their decisions, by their ability to choose. They do not want to be told that the world is bleak and their future is hopeless, unless you are a true masochist. I lived so long by the Human Design mantra of “no choice” that it put me in this suspended state of listlessness; it pushed me further away from my inner truth, outsourcing my authority to an intangible system which supposedly knew what’s best for me.

Fuck. That. Only I know what’s right for me — only you know what’s correct for you.

I realized the stories I was telling myself about myself were becoming true because I spoke them into existence. I told myself I was afraid, so I became afraid. I told myself people were exhausting, so I became more introverted. I was terrified of everyone judging me, so I judged myself even harder. I told myself I wasn’t deserving of love, money, happiness (justified as the mind’s empty wishes), and so these reserves were depleted further. I was an island with a locked drawbridge, a castle kept safe by the moat.

However, the stories are now being cast in the light — impossible to ignore, impossible to look away. The prison I had bound myself to is like the allegory of Plato’s Cave: my interpretation of reality superseded reality itself. I thought the shadows on the wall were real. But they were not — I was limited by my state of mind. These insular bubbles of our own beliefs are hard to burst. In retrospect, I have been trying to break out of my bubble for over a year, one step forward, another step back.

Sometimes you have to go to the depths of experiencing what you do not want in order to know what you do want. Yes, learning how to surrender is an important practice in allowing life to be what it is. But then there is the complete detachment from the world which puts you in a dissociative state of numbness. You can be surrendered to life and still be an active participant within it; they do not have to be mutually exclusive.

When the heart is open, we can allow more life in. We can feel deeper. Our senses become defrosted. When the space is created, more prosperity — energy — can flow. But we have to have the capacity to hold it. If the heart is closed, then you cannot receive. If you tell yourself you don’t deserve to be happy, you will not be. You have to be willing to look into the mirror, and see that the image is just a reflection of yourself. Don’t blame the mirror — take responsibility.