It's All a Little Insane

When I first started my blog, I was very proud of it. Very proud of the fact that I had decided to reach out to people and share with a number of them some of the tribulations of my life. I thought it could be touching and smart. Of course, the main subject I had chosen to talk about was not the most uplifting one, but I believed that one can talk about misfortune and particularly one’s own like a perfectly ordinary thing.

A few chosen friends got the privilege of my blog’s address. For the others, it was up to them to find it by accident. I was not ashamed or uncomfortable; it was simply easier to reveal myself undercover. My friends were supportive and enthusiastic. Most of them already knew the broad lines for having been into my confidences for many years; others were more on the inspiring side of things. One of them however, particularly surprised me, Juliet.

Juliet and I met years ago while studying abroad and we managed to maintain a rich friendship afterward. Although we lived an ocean apart, the distance didn’t seem to be a precluding factor. Over the years, we shared much of our troubles and joys over emails and phone calls and we visited each other as often as we could. I thought we shared similar intellectual interests and a desire to surpass ourselves, to grow and to learn.

Juliet’s initial reaction to my first couple of postings was at best disconcerting. She was adamant that I was not only clinically depressed and in dire need of chemical support but also wasting my potential with incommensurable despair, an unhealthy focus on the past, and ultimately a profound regret for not having the life I hoped for. I was quite surprised especially since she knew how excited I was about the fact that my life was finally beginning to make sense. No amount of reassurance would work, she was right, I was in denial. I should accept my limitations, put an end to this ludicrous therapy and stop questioning myself. After all, too much reflection is bad for the mind. Everybody knows that the Great Philosophers were not especially known for their tremendous joie de vivre. According to her, life made no sense, we never got to know the why, the how and certainly not the thereafter, so what was the point?

What was the point? How could anyone be asking such question? What would the world be today if Socrates, Einstein, Newton, Freud or Christopher Columbus had decided that it was useless to even attempt at finding answers? Don’t get me wrong, I don’t pretend to be of their caliber, but we all have a role to play, people to touch, lives to affect. What kind of legacy do we leave behind when we just give up? Is life really easier afterward? Can we really just stop thinking, feeling, living? And then what? We all have limitations and they can be quite frightening, but are they not especially designed to force us to transcend ourselves?

Her reaction got me thinking. Was I boring her to death every time I attempted a meaningful conversation? It is no wonder she never participated. Was she just bearing her time until we could discuss her latest craft or haircut? That’s when I knew I had misjudged her; we had nothing in common except perhaps, a distant past.

Would it be so awful if my life did not correspond to what I had imagined? I had not imagined anything, I had no life. I died emotionally many years ago, before I even had the chance to live. I was a moth, larvae and I am now blossoming into a beautiful butterfly, thanks to all these wonderful people determined to help accomplish myself. Life has never been so good, so generous to me.

No matter what others may think, it is important for me to understand where I come from, what I have endured, how my life has been influenced in order to be able to understand the choices I have made and the reasons why I made them. How could I choose a different path if I know not how I go to this one in the first place?

Perhaps some people can go through life making as little waves as possible. Perhaps they may even be the happiest of all. I have after all cursed my own brain more than once wishing for a greater level of inanity. In spite of everything, there is nothing more stimulating to me than a conversation or a book that haunts me for a while and gets me thinking. And as long as I think, I am alive.