The Glass Wall

The mood came suddenly.  Previously, his companions had been with him; now they were around him.  The separation came swiftly—between standing to leave the first bar and entering the second—and absolutely.  He might have been amongst perfect strangers rather than friends.

It was a lonely mood, but a powerful one.  He felt no joy, true, but no pain.  His mind became ruthlessly analytical.  He watched the interactions of those in the bar as a stranger and could describe their trajectories with almost mathematical precision.  He anticipated their actions, their gestures, almost their words.  The vision was intoxicating; he used it as an addict uses a drug.

Now that cruelly clear vision saw a man—early thirties, of indeterminate background—approach one of his female companions.  They turned around one another like neutron stars or two marbles rolling around the rim of a bowl.  There were changes, close passes that spun into distance, but he knew how it would end.  He had known the moment he saw the pair form.  The laws of social physics permitted only one end.

He should stop it.  He liked the girl in more than an innocent manner, and liked the man’s looks in much the way that a fish likes hooks.  So he should stop it.  It was impossible.  He did not know how.  If he had, it would still have been impossible.  What was happening was could not be stopped.  His predictive powers relied upon all actors—particularly himself—remaining in their roles.  Indeed, those powers required this, for the clarity with which he saw the current trajectory made any other unthinkable.  He could see, but not change.  He who cannot change should not attempt to do so.

This was the truth of the glass mood.  He could hear; he could see, but he could not talk, could not move.  Such acts were as useless as tapping on a wall.  Indeed, that was how it felt to him, as a glass wall separating himself from the world and all in it.  How can a man who is not in a place interact with those who are?

On some level, he understood the illusory nature of this mood.  Did not all men and women start in the same situation as he?  Are they not able to connect with one another, speak openly to one another?  It seemed that they did not suffer from glass mood; if it affected none but him, what could it be but sophistry and illusion?

Yet on the base, animal level of emotion, he wondered: how can they not feel it?  Can any man go through life without feeling this barrier around himself?  Are all men doomed, not only to die alone, but also to live alone?  And if that is so, does all of man’s art consist of fleeing this truth—all joy consist of hiding from that reality?

Now, through the clarity of the glass mood, he saw the two-body problem come to its logical conclusion.  The man—for the man was driving the affair—stepped in front of her, slipped a hand along her waist, brought her to him.  She returned the kiss, hungry, furious, passionate.  It was as he had seen.

It should have hurt.  It should have cut him deep.  It did not.  It was a thing that was, and had to be, and could not have been otherwise.  He might have been watching a perfect stranger, rather than a girl he knew and desired.  That, too, was part of the glass mood.  He felt no anger, no pain, no shame, no desire, no joy.  He felt nothing, thought nothing, believed nothing.  There was only the clarity of vision, as if viewing the world through crystal.

This mood inevitably found him in such environments.  Loud, overcrowded, composed mainly of a sea of strangers; the great scrum of men that defined such “social” hours—he understood its purpose, but it was anything save social for him.  The inputs were rapid, overwhelming—extremely loud—incredibly close.  The glass mood was distance.  It allowed him to observe—to filter—to isolate—to protect himself from the noise.  It was self-preservation.  He could not be in such a place.

He could escape.  With supreme effort, he could force himself to feel, to act, to engage again with the world.  But to do so was futile.  The escape seldom lasted long.  The glass mood was an attractor.  Or perhaps the environment around it was a repulsor.  It mattered not.  Slip into it, however briefly, and return became inevitable.

Always such gatherings ended the same way.  He was weary of them.

He must change the ways in which he met other men and women.  Three or four in conversation, he could engage, enjoyed engaging.  Groups of three or four dozen were another matter.  And the social scrum—it never encouraged meaningful conversation, only the stale, obvious questions that serve to shield rather than reveal a man.  He knew this, because he used them in this way.  His responses to such questions served to build a labyrinth around himself.  A labyrinth is no less labyrinthine for being made of words.  And he knew that others did the same.

It was ironic.  In a setting in which men were supposed to most show themselves, most men wore masks instead.

He walked home alone.

He always walked home alone.

Breaking In

She sat across from him, clearly puzzled at his revelation.  He, for his part, stared at a point about four centimeters to her left, looking past rather than at her.

“You’ve been here for five months and we still know nothing about you,” she said, still with that puzzled expression on her face.  “Why do you spend so little time with us?”

He was silent.  It was a legitimate question, but entirely the wrong one.  He did not know how to explain this.  He must try.

“Have you ever moved away from home?”

“No…” her eyes unfocused for a moment, then refocused on him.  “I made an Erasmus in Dublin, but I suppose it’s not the same.”

It wasn’t.  The comparison gap was oceanic.  Bridging it seemed impossible.  He turned to look outside, trying to slow the centrifuge that his mind had become.

“Put yourself in my shoes for a moment.”  He stared at the building opposite but did not see it.  “You’ve moved away from home to go to university.  You’ve left family, friends, classmates; you need to rebuild your entire social group from zero.  It takes years, but you manage it; at the end of college, you’ve finally found a small group of people whom you trust absolutely, with whom you can be utterly comfortable, whom you can always call when you need something.

“But your job is a dead end, so you move in order to continue your education.  All the friendships you’ve spent four years building are rendered, not quite irrelevant, but pretty damned close.  Now you need to start all over again.  And, just to make it harder, you’re living in a different country, which uses a language which you can neither speak nor understand and an educational system which fundamentally differs from that with which you know, to say nothing of the bureaucratic nonsense that such a move necessitates.  Well, that’s rough, but you’re still living in student housing and going to classes, so you still meet people.  Once again, it takes time and energy, but you manage to build a group again.  Three years later, you’ve found people around whom you can leave your shell.

“And then your career compels you to move again.  Once again, a new country, a new language, a new system, new bureaucratic nonsense.  But this time, you live in a flat with two other persons who have neither the time nor the apparent desire to socialize.  This time you are working, which means no classes, no obvious way to meet persons outside of your laboratory, no organized ‘introduction week’ where one can meet fellow newcomers.  And, just to finish off the whole affair, your colleagues—the people with whom you spend the vast majority of your waking hours—they have their own lives outside of the office, and those lives do not include you.”

That was the fundamental barrier that he felt upon entering a new city, a new office, a new life.  He came knowing nothing and no one, looking to rebuild a social circle from scratch.  Yet those with whom he worked, those most obvious starting points, always possessed a circle, a schedule, a life which did not include him.

Ah, yes.  That was the kicker.  He could endure long hours at the office; he had always preferred to work alone.  But on days outside of office…to remain in a place that held nothing…not to know who to trust, who to call…and to know that to act would invite rejection and not to act would lead to isolation…

Was this why he so despised living with other men?  In his experience, men were preoccupied with work, parties, their machines; they did not understand the need for human contact.  Or perhaps they did not wish to seem to need it.  Such an admission would be a sign of weakness.  Either way, men seldom created those small but essential signs that signaled safety or community.  Flats inhabited by men inevitably came to be persons living alone together.  To be lonely while alone; ah, that cut deep.  But to be lonely while next to other persons—that cut deeper.

He should look elsewhere, in his gyms, his hobbies, his weekends.  Yet to find the time and energy to look elsewhere, while deep in the whirlwind of moving and integration…to find spare time, to make any plans beyond the bare necessities of survival, required energy, discipline, and most of all stability.  None of these things existed in the first dizzying month, nor had they existed in the months following.  Each time he seemed on the cusp of attaining them, a new emergency obliterated his gains.

He had managed this problem in Switzerland by hosting dinners, organizing trips, starting hobbies—in short, by remaking himself into a magnet.  He had succeeded and come to love it, but at a heavy price in time, energy, and money.  More than once, it had almost cost his M.Sc.  To repeat that performance now, on his current financial budget, at a time when he needed to write a proposal, to teach, to write reports, and to finish a project—it was impossible, an unaffordable risk.  The necessary stability did not exist.  He had to weave a net of an entirely different pattern, and before that, he had to invent the pattern.  He did not know how to begin.

And in honesty, he was not certain that he wished to.  He had often wondered if he gave more to those relationships than he received.  Often he had wondered if he was attempting that great futility—to buy camaraderie, to buy loyalty.

Was that what he sought?  Loyalty?

He turned back to her.  His eyes snapped to focus.  “Your first question—why I spend so little time with you—start by turning it around.  Why do you spend so little time with me?”

On Fighting Fire With Bigger Fires: or, Burn the Forest Down

Hey,
This is relevant to the current political climate of the U.S.A., so read carefully and read well.

A close friend and I entered an extremely interesting conversation on the UCSB shooter a few days after the event, in which we and several other interested people were discussing the sociological implications of the shooter, his motivations, and the labels attached to him.  The next day, a not-entirely-metaphorical mob chased us out.  So, I’d like to talk about what I saw happen, and why, almost two years later, I am still upset, worried, and damned angry about it.

Upon entering a heretofore civil sociological conversation, my friend suggested that the issue might be more complex than had previously been implied; namely, that it served as a warning of a broken mental health system as well as a misogynic act.  He proceeded to give a very personal and, to my mind, entirely valid argument for including this second line of thought in the discussion.  The originators of the post replied to this "distraction from misogyny" by insulting, denigrating, and accusing him of an extensive list of crimes, including misogyny and rape-enabling, with a level of viciousness that I found more appropriate to right-wing talk radio than a collection of UChicago students.  The rebuke may be accurately summarized as “Why are you using his ASD as an excuse?  Why are you trying to distract from the misogynistic nature of this crime?  How can you support him just because he had ASD?”—things, I might add, that he was not trying to do.  And when I stepped in to defend him from these accusations, which were in no way proportional to what he had in fact said, I found the fire hose of scorn, ridicule, and disdain turned upon myself as well.

What, you might ask, was our crime?

Well, as far as I can tell our crimes were twofold.  First, by suggesting that the situation might not be encapsulated by a single issue, we brought up the--apparently unthinkable--idea that radical feminism might not be the answer to everything.  Apparently, if society were perfectly equal (which I in no way claim it is!), all crime would vanish and everyone would be healthy and happy and...do I really need to continue this?

Our second crime was being straight, white, and male.  From that, it was determined that our perspective simply didn’t matter enough to bother reading—that our viewpoints were so fundamentally flawed and stereotypical that they weren’t worth the effort of understanding.

And that, my friends, is what made me so damned angry--and, I suspect, makes many otherwise undecided men (and women) angry as well.

Let’s step through what happened from my perspective.  Since, for my friend and I, mental illness is a rather important issue, we made the point that, had the Santa Barbara shooter obtained proper care for his ASD and depression, he might not have committed his crimes.  To obtain proper care would require that the problem be identified early, that professional and effective treatment be readily available, that his parents and he be willing to obtain that treatment, that he and his parents discuss the problem and its potential dangers, and that he feel safe sharing his thoughts and problems with friends and professionals.  We can argue about the how and when and where, but I’d say these are basic requirements.

In the United States today, this very seldom occurs.  Mental health remains fundamentally misunderstood by many, in no small part due to the fact that it has long been treated as a character flaw--"weakness", "cowardice", or "dangerous"--rather than a genuine disease.  Those suffering from depression are repeatedly told to “snap out of it” or “try to be happier” despite evidence that such advice is at best useless and most often harmful.  Those suffering from OCD may be told that their beliefs are ridiculous—something they know full well, but that doesn’t make it any easier.  Those suffering from ASD are repeatedly taunted, taken advantage of, or otherwise bullied for their social awkwardness.  The suicidal are routinely shunned or described as “weak” when discussing their problems.  Hell, even the discussion surrounding the shooter showed this tendency.  Within hours, it was reported that he had ASD and depression, with the implication that it was disorder’s fault—and, thus, that people who suffer from schizophrenia, depression, or otherwise mentally disordered are inherently dangerous.  This, despite the fact that the mentally ill are 25 times more likely to be victims of violence than its perpetrators.  Attitudes like this—the culture of mental illness as a stigma, as a failing of character—are one reason why nearly half of Americans with severe mental illness do not seek treatment.  True, it’s not the only reason, but it is a reason; my uncle refuses to admit his problems because of this stigma.

The ongoing discussion made no mention of these, despite the fact that at least three readers suffer from mental illness, and almost certainly more.  It came at the problem purely from the male privilege and misogyny standpoints—worthy standpoints, mind, and large contributors, but not the only ones.  So we (or, more accurately, my friend) observed that proper treatment and a fundamental reworking of attitudes towards mental health could have prevented the shooter from being so completely trapped in a parallel universe.

The response was a point-blank accusation that my friend was apologizing for the shooter, that he was using his mental illness as an excuse, and that he was perpetrating—indeed, actively supporting—the mysogynistic attitudes outlined in the shooter’s manifesto.  Packaged in there was an implication that my friend was just as bad, if not worse, than Mr. Santa Barbara Sports Car Gunner.  The sheer vindictiveness of it reminded me of Dick Cheney or Rush Limbaugh at their worst—all the worse because the claims were so ludicrously outsized that, under different circumstances, it would have been laughable.  The only parallels I’ve seen are accounts of “counterrevolutionary” interrogations in Maoist China or Stalinist Russia.

At this point, I felt obligated to step in.  This friend of mine was a close one, so I knew that such accusations hit him hard; it was worth letting him know that he wasn’t alone.  So I replied, saying that although misogyny and rape culture and sexism are all elements of the motivation and crime, mental illness is also an element; that injecting that element into the conversation was not intended to reduce the purview of sexism, misogyny, and rape culture, but to add an important and missing nuance to the discussion; and that the accusations levelled against my friend showed the tolerance of Stalinist Russia and the circularity of Catch-22 (although, of course, I put it more tactfully than that).

The response (only slightly paraphrased): “Fuck off, I don’t want to read the words of a misogynist apologizer.  So I didn’t, I already know what it says.”

Now, at this point it was fairly clear that critical thinking was not a strong suit of these persons, but I did feel the need to point out that the person in question clearly had no idea what I wrote, since (s)he hadn’t actually bothered to read more than three words of it.

When I made this point, I was told, in as many words, to “check my privilege.”

Well.  If by “check your privilege,” you mean, “give women, minorities, and the LGBTQ community an equal voice and listen to what they have to say”—gladly.  If by “check your privilege,” you mean, “In conversation with someone unlike yourself, give them an equal voice, allow them to make their point, think about what they are saying, attempt to consider the situation from their perspective, and consider their viewpoints as valid as your own”—if one cannot do that, one is not having a conversation.

But, if by “check your privilege,” you mean “I already know what you’re going to say because you’re upper-class, straight, white, and male,” I can only say: no, you do not.  If, by “check your privilege,” you mean “Since you are a straight white upper-class man, shut up,” I can only say that that is injustice, just as much as someone saying “Since you are black, or poor, or gay, or a woman, shut up.”

The members that thread got what they wanted.  My friend and I left the conversation, with no intention to return.  But, by driving us out, they also destroyed any chance that we will engage them again.  And by doing that, they made their lives easier in the short term and harder in the long term, because we—my friend and I—are less likely to learn now.  We are less likely to have the sort of difficult, strenuous conversation that leads to real thought and insight.

Because we are angry.

Because we are afraid.

We are now afraid that entering such a conversation will lead to insult, ridicule, and slander.  We are afraid that we will be condemned on the basis of our birth, our childhoods, our families.  We are afraid that to step out of line, to even suggest flaws in the existing doctrine, will lead to public humiliation and ridicule.  So, like most rational creatures who avoid pain, we avoid the bait for fear of a trap.

So.

Who won?

Employer’s Note

Dear Sir or Madam:

            I compose this note, not to make demands, but in the hopes that it will improve our soon-to-be relationship on both a working and a personal level.  My past experience states that it is best to make strategies, expectations, and methods explicit, so as to prevent any confusion or discovery of failure at a late stage in the project.  As such, I wish to make my general working tendencies and desires clear.

            The most important point: in order to perform well, I need a structure, or sense of structure, within which I am working.  In plainer English, this means that I want to have a relatively stable plan, with time set aside to study the theory, regular progress checkpoints, and clear goals embedded therein.  This gives me a clear and stable list of semi-independent goals, which allows modularization of the project, i.e., a definition of the expected inputs and outputs of each stage of the project, the development of implementation and testing strategies for each module, and clear goals after the attainment of which I can consolidate results, write reports, and determine which topics continue to confuse me.  Such a structure should ideally build communication into the broader plan in the form of regular meetings, reports, and explanations of theory and methods.  Such communication structures can assist me—or force me—to clarify questions and problems that I have not yet been able to answer, and may have difficulty vocalizing in a clear or coherent fashion.  In addition, it will force me to maintain a line of communication.

This brings us to our second point.  Unfortunately for both my prior supervisors and myself, it has always been difficult for me to judge or maintain the adequacy of my communication with my supervisors and colleagues.  This is partially a personal trait; I am introverted, very much so, and so I prefer to think over a problem alone.  However, it may be partially ascribed to a consistent shortage of self-confidence, which provokes an intense drive to prove myself worthy of trust, or capable of high performance.  This provides powerful motivation, but can also provoke self-destructive levels of independence and hesitance to ask for assistance.  High levels of stress or concentration often exacerbate these tendencies, causing me to forget or fail to devote sufficient energy to communicating in a clear or complete fashion.  Prior projects have demonstrated the severity and chronic nature of this problem, and I wish to avoid it in future ones; but it can be avoided only if both parties are aware of it, and if there is a structure in place to bring it to heel.

In addition to causing a hesitance to ask for assistance or guidance, this shortage of self-confidence can often lead to my failing to ask for references or feedback on my performance or any bad habits that may have been noted over the course of the project.  Further, it can exacerbate the previously noted communication problems by letting me convince myself that my presence is not welcome, or I will interrupt or offend a coworker or supervisor by intruding.  Although I have taken steps to address these issues, and although the shortage of confidence is not so serious as when beginning my M.Sc., it has by no means been eradicated.  As such, it bears mentioning that this can be an issue…and if I appear withdrawn, it is likely shyness and confusion rather than arrogance.

Finally, the modularization of the project also serves to enforce concentration on a single aspect of a problem at a time.  This is an aspect of my mind that bears some mention.  It is extremely difficult, and usually counterproductive, for me to attempt to work on—or even remember—more than a single problem at a given time.  As such, it is to my benefit to clarify which element of a project I am to work on in a given week and place the rest in a definite plan of attack.  This prevents the need to remember unnecessary details, and thus reduces the possibility of distraction or the forgetting of such details.

            I recognize that this may appear obvious to most experienced managers, but it has not been obvious to me.  Upon my arrival in Switzerland, I did not have a system in place, nor did I anticipate the dramatically greater freedom—and correspondingly looser control—afforded Swiss M.Sc. students.  On more than one occasion, this culture clash caused my supervisors to, as we say in the States, give me enough rope to hang myself with.  The only benefit derived from such misadventures and miscommunications has been the recognition of the need to formally define such personal management, and implement a strategy to avoid repeating such miscommunications in the future.

            After accepting this project, our first step must be to meet and open communication with all participants and advisors.  There will be no better time.  In these meetings, we must define the questions being asked, to wit, what scientific hypotheses do we have, and what engineering problems may we face?  Without these questions defined in the minds of all involved, it will be too easy to become lost.  Once these questions have been asked, then we may proceed to the remainder of the planning:

• Split the project into modules
• Theoretical basis
• Basic background
• Specific problem
• Basic method or pipeline
• Additional modules
• Define function of these modules
• Separate these modules from basic function
• Place modules in a hierarchy of priority, and begin with the most urgent
• Define an archiving system based on this hierarchy
• Separate directories for each module
• Separate directory for final script and report
• Write a report for the theoretical basis
• Break into sub-reports as appropriate by modularity
• State initial background knowledge
• Explain additional background knowledge gained in literature search
• Write a summary and a review of project-specific literature
• Note any clear questions
• Describe any points that still appear unclear or confused
• Define each module before it is begun
• Goal (singular) of phase
• Milestones
• Theoretical basis
• Foreseeable difficulties
• Outputs expected
• Tests to be run on these results
• At the end of each implemented module, write a sub-report
• Goal of module
• Purpose of module in broader project plan
• Hypotheses addressed
• Theoretical basis for this module
• Methods and reasoning behind these methods
• Milestones achieved
• Any deviations from original plan
• Outputs generated
• Results of output tests
• Location of outputs and test results in archival structure
• Discussion of results
• Conclusions
• Unresolved questions or points of confusion
• Each week, have a five-minute presentation with following discussion
• Presentation
• Structure of current module
• Place of current module in broader project
• Status of current module
• Work in past week
• Results:
• IF results are available, explain them.  What do they mean?  Are they as expected?  If so, why, and what does that imply?  If not, why not, and what does that imply?
• IF results are not available, explain why there were no results this week.  What does that imply?  Does the approach have validity?  If so, defend it.  If not, why not?
• Goals for next week
• Discussion:
• Potential meaning and implications of current status/results
• Potential problems with current approach or work
• Realism or problems with next week’s goals
• Goals of presentation and discussion
• Consider any problems or confusions that have surfaced this week
• Remember: ignorant men do not know that they are ignorant, and so cannot remedy their situation
• Discussing your approach may allow your supervisor to spot problems early
• Consider the relevance of this approach to the broader problem
• Consider what your results mean, and how that message might be consolidated.
• Prepare for module report
• IMPORTANT: presentation of results is NOT the primary concern.  Thinking and consolidating is the primary concern.

By maintaining such a structure, it will be difficult for me to, as is said, hang myself with my own rope.  Although I desire and relish the freedom implied in possessing a personal project and being allowed to implement it as I wish, I also recognize the danger of independence too quickly or too freely given.  It has happened before.  I do not wish it to happen again.

It is, I hope, clear by now that I am highly motivated but also high-stress.  This brings us to another important point: barring truly exceptional circumstances, I do not wish to work on weekends or more than 9 to 10 hours per day.  I include searching for jobs or academic posts as part of those hours.  Such a schedule is counterproductive.  In order to provide top-quality work during the workday, I must rest, exercise, see friends, pursue relationships, and obtain mental space with which to examine strategies with a critical eye.  To ignore these needs, to attempt to be on at all times, in my experience rapidly leads to burnout; and although it is possible for a short time, such times frequently end with collapse.

Another point that bears mention—and do try to understand this, for it is important—I am not a naturally expressive person.  I am not what might, in the U.S., be described as a “people person”—that is, the sort who makes friends easily, who picks up cues easily, or who can sense and manipulate the energy in a room.  Often I am afraid of giving offence or placing myself where I am not wanted, and in such scenarios my natural reaction is silence.  This is one reason I wish to have our reports be structured and predictable; if we are forced to rely on intuition or impressions in order to communicate, the question is not if there will be a breakdown, but when.

For precisely this reason, I wish to—indeed, need to—feel included in the workplace.  Given the temporary nature of most of my projects thus far, it has not been easy to fully assimilate into my prior laboratories, and often I felt that I was missing the social life of the office.  It should not be understood that I wish to treat the laboratory as only a workplace; knowing colleagues as friends as well as coworkers is extremely important, and as such I do wish to participate in laboratory activities and social gatherings.  However, it may be difficult for me to ask for invitations to such events, due to the concerns expressed previously.  As such, if there is a social list or another method by which lab members announce events or gatherings, I wish to be part of it, and I would like to know of any events in which I would be welcome.  As noted before, my working mode is intense, but it is not all facets of my personality; I would like to demonstrate the others.

Finally, I will almost certainly want a reference at the end of this project.  Obvious?  Perhaps, but asking for such a reference has always felt somewhat mercenary to me.  My family has more in common with WASP society than we might like to admit; we do not to talk about money, we simply have it.  Experience and references are not so different.  Yet I will want, and need, a reference at the end of this project, and so it must be said.

I recognize that this may seem impertinent from a new hire.  However, my experience states that this is how large projects should be approached.  To simply cut a young worker loose is too often to lose him or her in a failure of discipline that he or she does not realize is needed; to dictate his every step is micromanagment, which is always resented and prevents meaningful growth.  A middle ground must be laid; a structure must be established and revisited regularly.  Without such a structure, it is too easy to become lost in the details, to hurtle onwards without checking our direction.  We must maintain a hierarchy of ideas, cut the branches one by one, and maintain discipline in doing so.  The lack of any one of these three things can easily lead a project to failure; and such failures have been only narrowly averted in the past.

The Clock

I have a clock in my head.  It never stops running.  It’s always there, in the back of my mind, ticking away the days, hours, minutes, seconds, with a list of tasks next to it.

I want to turn the damn thing off.

On any given day, I juggle a dozen small emergencies.  My project refuses to function; my room has a blown fuse; my report hasn’t been started; I should exercise; I need to make dinner; my medical claim needs filing; I received an official notice on Tuesday; I want to set up a date; I need to do laundry; my applications and requests for interviews remain amorphous and unwritten; I need to discuss travel plans; I need to pay attention to the lecture that is occurring right under my nose; I should play with this scientific problem that interests me; I’m running low on coffee and garlic; yesterday’s lecture needs reviewing; I have a presentation to write.  All of this runs through my brain within thirty minutes of leaving bed.

The clock ticks.

My first thought is, “How can I manage all of these tasks today?  How to schedule them so that I can stay on top of these issues?”  So I develop a plan; if I leave the house on time; if I finish such-and-such a task by 14:00; if I exercise at 18:00; etc., etc., etc.  It is all doable…if nothing goes wrong.

Of course something does not go as planned.  A task takes longer than I expected; the fix I tried doesn’t work; a friend whom I haven’t seen for a while wants to meet for dinner or coffee.

The clock ticks red.  The list remains unfinished.  I reschedule.  If I cut down on exercise; if I cook tomorrow instead of tonight; if I put off folding laundry; if the report waits another day; if the scientific curiosity waits another week; if I skip lecture review; if I sleep six hours instead of eight….

The clock ticks red.  I go to bed.  Half a dozen tasks remain.  Upon waking the next morning, I remember them; I failed to complete them yesterday; I must fit them into today’s schedule.

The clock ticks red.  I forgot to set up the date.  Travel plans remain unknown.  Applications remain unwritten.  My shirts live in my suitcase.  The emails have been waiting four days.  I haven’t exercised in seven.  The curiosity is dead.  The project isn’t working.  My report isn’t started.  And more things come.

The clock ticks red.  I want a chance to organise all of the things I haven’t done, develop a plan for how to catch up on them, and finish them.  I want time to think, rather than running from post to post.  I want to go to bed feeling like I’ve finished everything I needed to do that day.  I want to have the sense of crisis be an exception, not a rule.  I can’t remember the last time I felt like I was on time, in control; I panic at unexpected trouble.

The clock ticks red.  I don’t think I’ll ever have time to finish all my emergencies, let alone the unnecessary but interesting tasks.  I’m no longer trying to engage in preventative actions; I’m no longer even trying to eliminate the backlog; I’m just trying for damage control.

The clock ticks red.  I’ve given up.  I’ve been behind too long; there are too many things to do; I can’t remember them all; I will never be able to catch up.  I don’t care.  I don’t care that I don’t care.

The clock ticks red.

All Reset.

The clock ticks black.  I eliminated or delayed all of my less-than-urgent tasks.  I’m on top of things again.  For now.

But they are still there.  Still waiting.  I’ve not beaten the beast, just delayed its reemergence.  It will be back.  Perhaps next time, I’ll be better able to fight it.

Perhaps not.

The clock ticks black.

The clock ticks red.

Two of the tasks I delayed are due in eight days.  I haven’t looked at them.  I haven’t had time to look at them.  I don’t know how I’ll finish them both in eight days.  I know I’ll need at least twice that long to do both competently.  I should have started working on them last week.  But last week I was dealing with last week’s emergency; I didn’t remember these.

The clock ticks red.  I know I need to start addressing the tasks that are due next week.  I know that if I don’t start them now, I won’t have time to do them well, if at all.  But where is the damned time?  My current crisis requires all the energy I can spare.

The clock ticks red.  I don’t remember anything of what I heard or did yesterday.  I haven’t had time to review that material, I didn’t even have time to let it sink into my brain; I was too busy trying to finish yesterday’s emergency.  It’s okay.  I don’t need to remember it.  Yet.

The clock ticks red.  I’m eating my seed grain and I know it.  I can’t sustain this.  But it doesn’t matter; I need to survive the current crisis.  Maybe then I’ll be able to survive the next one.  And the next one.  And the next one.  The crises never stop coming.  Maybe if they did, I’d have time to come up with a plan to deal with them in an organised fashion.  But they don’t.

The clock ticks red.  I want to hit someone, to break something, but there is no one within reach who deserves it, nothing that I can break without repercussions.  I want to scream, but my roommates or colleagues will hear.  I want to cry, but somewhere along the path of “growing up”, I forgot how to.  I want to speak to someone, but I’m afraid that it will frighten them; or, worse, they will dismiss it as minor, a weakness, a lack of focus or motivation.  I should ask for help, but somehow, I can't bring myself to admit that weakness...that inadequacy.  So I can only curse myself for failing to recognise this danger sooner, and for building my protections so well.

The clock ticks red.  I open a beer at my desk.  It will calm the nerves for an hour; enough to cram the next chapter, enough to let me write the next paragraph.  In the long term, it’s unsustainable, indeed antiproductive, and I know it.  But I’m not thinking long term.  To think long term is a luxury that I cannot afford.  I’m just surviving the emergencies as they come, running in the hopes of reaching something better.  Never mind that I don’t know where the road goes.  I don’t have time to worry about that.

The clock ticks red.  I can't remember the last time I wasn't in crisis mode.  Some people find that energizing.  I passed that point long ago.  I'm just exhausted.  I'm facing the biggest crisis of this project, but my adrenaline was used up long ago.  I don't care.  I don't care that I don't care.

The clock ticks red.

Cold Returns

            There were tracks in the snow, tracks of boots and shoes and cycles and most likely a dog.  He had a bicycle, but the snow was treacherous with narrow tires and a heavy load, so he walked.  The snow still fell, finer, sharper, but he was near shelter and he walked on.

            It was cold, and damp, and he was not dressed for such weather, but he did not mind.  He thought of the great vat of wine waiting for him, and his mouth twitched in the bare suggestion of a smile.  Glühwein tonight, so he walked on.

The snow squeaked under his shoes and rattled on his cap, and he could see the bend in the tracks that signaled he was close.  He thought of home, how it, too, might be seeing snow.  But which home, the place he was born or the place where he first lived alone, first learned friendship?  Quite likely both.

He walked on.  The snow fell into the gap between pant cuff and shoe and he felt the cold in his ankle and his fingers and his eyes.  He recalled his friends and family from home, some more than others; and his chest tightened at the memory of the one whom he had hoped would be more than friend.  Enough, he told himself: that choice has been made, that ship has sailed.  Ah, but if you heard it might return to port, you’d run to it.  Aye, but there’s no knowing if or when that ship will return, so dwelling on it serves no purpose.

            He walked on.  He had reached the turn in the tracks and he gripped the bicycle to mount the curb.  The bushes were stark and bare under their coat of snow and he thought them beautiful.  Why it was beautiful he could not say, but it was and he loved it and he wondered why.

            He walked on.

            Cold and tired and alone, he walked on.

On OCD: March 2014

I had an obsessive-compulsive episode one week ago tonight, on March 6th, C.E. 2014.

I didn’t recognize it at first; I thought it was just another day of modest self-disappointment caused by lack of focus and over-scheduling.  Those days happen, and usually an hour or two of good focused exercise is enough to bring me back to my senses.

Not that day.  That day, I couldn’t get my failure to finish the day’s self-imposed job training assignment out of my mind.  It kept buzzing in my head through the late afternoon; it kept muttering during taekwondo class; it sent my brain spinning after practice.  It felt like my brain was going round and round and round and round, racing down a spiral stair, chasing after that one detail that I had failed, I had not done my job, and now I was risking the loss of a place to live and work—all this despite the fact that my deadline was almost entirely self-imposed.  It was so bad, I left my taekwondo studio nearly half an hour early despite having my black belt test two days later.

It wasn’t until I was leaving Yong Studios, around 19:55 at night, that I realized: I know this feeling.  I experienced it on a regular basis between the ages of four and ten.  This is the feeling of an obsession, and it was driving me toward a compulsion: namely, the compulsion to complete some part of the work I had failed to do earlier.  In a very real sense, once I got home, I would be obsessively-compulsively working.

It’s hard to explain this to one who hasn’t experienced it.  The running torture is a good analogy; it is a torture where the accused is made to run around a track without food, water, or rest until he or she either confesses or collapses.  It is an insidious thing, because it does not seem like torture; there is no rack, no whip, no thumbscrew, only the repetitive, exhausting pounding.

An obsessive attack is like that: the brain runs itself in the same circle, around and around that focus point, over and over and over and over and over and over and over until the afflicted either surrenders to the compulsion or collapses from the effort of fighting.  It makes no difference that the victim knows his obsession is unrealistic; the brain has its track, and the mind runs its course.

Terror.

That’s the best description I can give for my reaction.  I’ve known my whole life that I suffered from OCD and that I am a high-strung person, but for years I believed that I finally had the demon beaten.  For some of them, perhaps I did.  Now I face the very real possibility that, rather than defeat the demon, I have simply redirected it; and that is a terrifying thought.

There are some advantages, I suppose.  If nothing else, it provides a powerful motivation to meet my responsibilities.  My brain, quite literally, will not allow me to escape those tasks I (it?) deems important.  My job, hobbies, and friends need never fear neglect.

Yet there is a danger, and a very real one at that.  To begin, my motivation is almost all negative; I work because I flog myself, not because I seek the result.  More important, this represents a loss of autonomy.  I cannot change my path at will, nor can I escape my past plans, even when those plans prove impossible.  Flexibility is almost impossible, for how can I be flexible when my mind flagellates itself for even the slightest deviation from my plans?

The only solution I’ve found, thus far, is to categorize.  Only when I dissect and outline and factualize, apart from any and all emotional baggage, do I feel able to grasp the issue without panic.  Yet it seems I must go through the panic before undergoing the divorce, and any deviation requires some excuse.

It works.  I can survive this way.  But I do not want to spend the next ten years at war, dissecting all details, excusing each deviation, analyzing every choice.  It is a stiff life that leaves, inflexible, cold.  It would make Kant proud, I suppose: he and I would have got along splendidly.  But that is not the life I want.  I want to live, to laugh, to love, to cry, to grieve.  I want to skip my workout without feeling an urge to skip bread at dinner, I want to leave work early when the doctor calls, I want to take the time to meet a friend or colleague or lover in the cafe without analyzing how it might affect my night.  I want to live, not plan to live.  I have made great strides towards that goal in the past four years, yet this last episode, and the week following it, showed how far I have yet to go.