Tag: Life

  • Expectations and Ingratitude

    I sometimes find myself taking offence when someone does not fulfil my rights. I mean, it’s my rights, so why shouldn’t I get offended if they abdicate their responsibility in the process? But then I felt that familiar twinge I usually feel whenever I know I’m being deliberately arrogant. It’s a twinge that causes me to rationalise in my mind whether or not that arrogance is called for, or is it really just a self-indulgent tantrum. Slowly it dawned on me that despite the rights I may have, taking offence to it not being fulfilled suggests that I feel entitled to it.

    Entitlement can sometimes be justified, especially in the above scenario, but it doesn’t mean that my underlying motives cease to exist. My sense of entitlement also implies that I have an expectation, and I still maintain that expectations are at the root of much bitterness (and by the way, Shakespeare never said that, no matter how many times you see that meme on the net). So it’s better to have hope instead. But that is really beside the point. The real issue that I grappled with in all of this was the fact that when I focus on my rights that need to be fulfilled, it significantly alters my demeanour when dealing with anything that is remotely contentious relative to that right.

    When I see the contribution of others as an obligation on their part rather than a blessing on mine, I easily slip into a mindset of arrogant expectation. The only time that someone is obliged to fulfil my rights is if they have an equal conviction in a common belief system where they respect the repercussions of their actions. The ingratitude, I guess, arises when I assume that reciprocation is not needed where my rights were merely being fulfilled. And perhaps in that is some truth that calls into question the sincerity of such gestures.

    Sincerity is not reciprocation. Sincerity is fulfilling the rights of others even when they neglect your rights over them. But that sincerity is relative to the intent with which such rights are respected. If we uphold the rights of others because we fear the repercussions of not doing so, then we’re insincere. The benefit may still be there, but its effects will be limited and its rewards will be absent. How this all ties up is not necessarily obvious, but it is amazingly relevant.

    If gratitude is truly tainted by entitlement, which I believe it is, and sincerity is often neglected when we feel obliged, then it makes sense to me that sincerity can only ever be true if entitlement and reciprocation play no part in our motivation to act. Sincerity in action is the result of a conviction we hold true in spite of our low opinion of another. It is with such conviction that we will find ourselves able to contribute towards the upliftment of those that we believe are culpable in their needy state. But it just occurred to me that even that conviction will be grounded in a belief of reward or recompense that is either worldly or other-worldly. Whether we believe the wheel will turn and smack us back in this lifetime, or we believe that we will receive our reward when we are judged for our actions, it amounts to the same thing. Self-preservation.

    It seems like sincerity is a wholesome concept that is grounded in our need to feel magnanimous while feigning humility. If we didn’t feel entitled, and if we were truly capable of gratitude, contentment would not be so elusive. I look around me and I see my restlessness echoed in others. This suggests to me that we’re all lacking contentment in what we have and what we need from those around us. Like darkness is only manifested in the absence of light, so too must restlessness be manifested in the absence of contentment. We won’t be restless if we didn’t feel neglected, and such feelings of neglect would not result except when we feel entitled, and such entitlement is only present when we believe we’re more significant than others perceive us to be, and so it stands to reason that our perception of our self is what drives us to be the fools we are, in search of contentment while actively pursuing that which erodes the very goal that we aspire to reach.

    Yet another vicious cycle.

     

  • Recalibration and Resuscitation

    There are moments when my resolve gives way to feelings of surrender. It usually accompanies moments in my life when I realise that my expectations are consistently exceeding my reality, often relative to those around me. Initially I find myself rejecting the simple truth that that holds, but eventually the unintended cycle of recalibrating my expectations begins. Recalibration for me is like rising to the surface for a breath of air before submerging again into the sea of expectations that pervade my life.

    In the absence of this cycle, I find myself growing persistent in my justified views of what should be expected from those around me. As much as I have my rights to those expectations, its unfulfilled reality strips me of the peace that would otherwise be enjoyed should those rights have been fulfilled. It was in contemplating this that I realised that life is all about victims and oppressors, with a smattering of humanity in between. When we recognise and fulfil our rights towards those around us, we become humane. The moment we fall short or overstep those bounds, we become either oppressors or victims respectively.

    The challenge with this realisation though is that most people are so immersed in their need to be fulfilled, that they have long since lost sight of the rights that others have over them. The overwhelming majority of those that still breathe today are victims of circumstance, and mostly of themselves. It is this reality that forces the need for recalibration because in the normal course of life, everything being equal, and all parties fulfilling their rights before demanding their expectations, such recalibration will not be needed because the natural order will be maintained. Withholding our contribution towards the fulfilment of the rights of those around us disrupts that order, and more often than not we are the ones withholding in response to us being the disgruntled recipients of the effects of that very same disorder.

    Simply stated, we easily forget to notice that we often impose oppression on those around us because of an oppression that we may have experienced at a different time in our lives. Unless we stop to reflect on the reality of when we slip into that victim state of mind, chances are great that we will find ourselves being party to the very same oppression that we decry. In my short life I have witnessed the worst oppression being meted out by those who viewed themselves as victims before anything else. Moments like those are often what prompted the need for recalibration. In the face of such victim-inspired oppression, it made no sense to persist in my expectation of having my rights fulfilled by one that was oblivious to it. Recalibration, at that point, allowed me a moment to resuscitate myself from the suffocation of the imbalance around me.

    I’ve also recently realised that my pursuit for balance, and therefore logical conclusions, is core to my frustrations with those around me. People behave emotively before they consider logic. I’m often reminded of the verse from the Qur’an that states that everything was fashioned in due proportion. Such proportion I believe is not limited to just our physical form, but instead, to every single law that governs our existence. When that balance is disrupted, ill health and mental strife follow, often manifesting itself as oppression, or victim-hood.

    Recalibration is therefore not simply an indulgence in seeking a meditated balance in my life. It is a tool for survival. Survival from the insanity that parades as humanity. Survival from the chaos that I am inclined by nature to unravel and restore into an ordered state. Resistance to that order is what oppresses me, which oddly enough is the resistance of a victim to contribute towards an order that they were denied, and therefore refuses to break the cycle, choosing to pay it forward instead.

    My efforts at recalibration used to be sub-conscious. In recent times it has become a conscious need, and with it, the mindfulness of what I need to surrender in the process drives my ego to resist my efforts at recalibration because of the need to sacrifice my own benefits in favour of sanity. The moment we place more emphasis on our rights than we do on our sanity, we become a threat to the morbid peace enjoyed by those around us.

  • Personal Space

    The concept of personal space is an interesting one. We’re social beings by nature. We have an innate need to be appreciated and acknowledged for our personal contribution or expression in everything. We insist on withdrawing into a personal space when we are convinced that such appreciation or acknowledgement will be replaced by ridicule or rejection. I can’t imagine why anyone would prefer to recede if they have the opportunity to bask in the affection and attention of those that appreciate them endearingly. So it stands to reason that such withdrawal must be motivated by the absence of such an embrace.

    It’s a distraction, like so many others that we’re surrounded with. The fear of rejection is established so early in life that we respond from a position of habit without realising that it goes against our innate nature. Our ability to be absorbed or immersed into the being of another underlies our sense of belonging. The less we feel like we belong, the more likely we will be to prefer our own company to the company of others. For this same reason we insist on establishing a personal space that excludes all others, because it also protects us from criticism or rejection about those things that we feel most passionately vulnerable about. Chances are, we include total strangers in those spaces through acquiring what we want, or indulging what we need provided they have no social or emotional attachment to us.

    No wonder then that we are more inclined to social networking than social interaction. Face-to-face interactions are fast giving way to impersonal ones. It’s not because of convenience or constraints, but because it’s safer than being there in person. It’s easier to hide our vulnerabilities through a few choice words as a response, than it is to retract an involuntary facial expression. So it makes sense that we are more likely to express ourselves more willingly online with limited traceability to who we are, because to withdraw without repercussions or accountability is so much easier.

    Personal space therefore appears to be a contradiction in terms because the need for it signifies an imbalance that makes it a necessity. When faced with overwhelming odds in one area of our lives, we seek balance in another. Most often, that space we can pursue such balance is in the absence of others, since it is the very presence of others that gave rise to the imbalance to begin with. The easy answer is to choose more carefully who you surround yourself with. The reality though is that there are repercussions of excluding the detrimental elements that may outweigh the benefits of righting that balance. Establishing your personal space to recover from that imbalance, even if just for a moment, therefore appears to be a necessary compromise that most are willing to make.

     

  • Elusive

    There has been a sense of peace, or composure that has eluded me all my life. I listen to people talk about concepts like home, relationships, connections, soul mates, and the like, and none of it rings true or familiar for me. I see fathers giving up their time with their daughters when still in their fragile formative years, and I wonder if they have any idea what they’re taking for granted.

    I never had a chance to build on the bond of fatherhood with either of my daughters. Both were snatched away at an early age, for similar but also entirely different reasons. There’s a strangeness that sets in under such circumstances. The natural bond that should have been formed is somehow replaced by an awkwardness of never fully accepting anything about the dynamics of it all that led to that moment when you’re standing face-to-face with your child. A moment when you’re torn between despising the behavioural traits that remind you of the betrayal you contended with from her mother, and the gut churn of wanting to express how much you understand that it isn’t their fault, while knowing that doing so will cause more harm than good.

    Sometimes I’m convinced that the principles I stand for are entrenched in a sound foundation, but there are other times when I wonder if it’s not just the façade I need to avoid embracing the full cold reality of me. Principles are great to earn scornful respect, but not so great to earn affection. The irony is that a principled life creates harmony, even if that harmony is manifested as predictability and dependability. Yet it’s those same principles that lead to the isolation of emotion when upholding what is right compels me to act against those that I know would rather have me embrace them in their wrongs.

    I look at the people around me and admire in a strange way their belief in tomorrow. In a life beyond the present moment. I smile at times when I see them investing in their future, all the while seeing myself as the speck in the eye of the beholder, causing that blink to brush away the speck, and realising that that blink is more representative of my life than any investment in any future I could ever make. I wonder if such an investment, if beneficial to those that will be left behind, will create a comfort for them that will draw them closer or further away from their spiritual calling. I wonder if making it easier than comfortable will be a disservice or a gift.

    I continue to contemplate these matters in isolation, because if even the simple troubles appear too complex for others to grasp, what chance do I have of having the deeper tribulations understood? Peace appears not to have been intended for acquisition in this lifetime. I mock myself with thoughts and aspirations of changing the world, while realising that it requires more than a lifetime to achieve. Handing down a legacy for another to take up needs the presence of one that embraces the struggles for purpose of my own soul. In its absence, the reality of life’s ephemeral touch bears down without pause or respite. The pendulum of time brushes ever so lightly against the arc of eternity, and in that very finite moment of its contact, an entire lifetime is lived.

    The truth about being human is not that we are capable of being great, but rather that we are arrogant in the face of such insignificance. Moments of reflection can be torturous at times. It etches into our consciousness the reality of death, and the finality and futility of life, but my innate nature for which I can take no credit continues to drive me to improve, aspire, and inspire, despite knowing that not much of my efforts will survive beyond my last gasp.

    Elusive. Even in the midst of the celebration of me I am reminded of the all that I have failed to be. With this thought in mind, I continue to pursue that which I know is unattainable, yet almost within reach. Life is an illusion, and death sets you free. I look forward to my liberation, and pray it does not overtake me at a moment of distraction.

  • Obliviously Resilient

    I’ve always taken comfort from my sense of resilience, but noticed recently that it appears to be waning. I seem to be more sensitive than before to the emotional jarring that goes with betrayal, and this concerns me. Well, at first it did, but now I’m simply afraid of reflecting any further on the subject. There have been times when in the moment, I found myself unfazed by the abrasiveness or abuse being meted out towards me. It always appeared to be black or white for me. Something was either right, or it was wrong, and the underlying principle that supported my observation or perception was all that I cared about. It was such an easy way to live.

    Life isn’t as simple anymore. Principles still drive me, but they’re not as defining as they used to be. The reason I’m afraid of reflecting further is because I’ve realised that the more I grow to understand my weaknesses, my needs, or my flaws, the more I relate to the flaws and weaknesses and failings of others. Unfortunately, this also implies that the reverse is true as well, not in them knowing me, but rather in me also being able to grow more familiar with the arrogance, the aloofness, and the smug condescension that lurks behind the smile that dresses the words of so many I meet. It is in this realisation that I start doubting my past resilience and wonder if it was in fact resilience based on strength of character, or was it resilience grounded in obliviousness.

    The net effect remains a beneficial one, so the concern I feel must be an indulgence in my own ego. Anyone claiming to be free of their ego is in fact driven by it. I guess that is the obvious sibling to the realisation that the proclamation of humility is in fact arrogance. I’m so easily distracted from the point of my ramblings these days. Being oblivious, not by choice, therefore appears to be a blessing. It’s what causes us to appear resilient, but it also causes us to appear grounded and uninterested in things that don’t concern us. Strangely enough I am once again reminded of the parallels between this and humility. I’ve previously argued that humility can only be observed and not practiced. I guess in some way, the same applies to resilience.

    The same way that I may appear humble when in fact I am too jaded to acknowledge the superficial praises of others makes me jaded, not humble. Similarly, being oblivious to the true repercussions of the events I am experiencing results in a resilience that is unintended, although mostly beneficial. I think there is a point in here somewhere. I think my distracted state is a source of inspiration. I’m just too distracted to figure out how to put it to good use.

    Perhaps distraction and naivety are the precursors to obliviousness. Such obliviousness, where its roots are not conscious choices, contributes to our sense of resilience. Questioning that resilience appears to be akin to looking a gift horse in the mouth. So perhaps I should be grateful for my inclination to be unconcerned about the fickleness of society, and instead of questioning how I may have appeared to others in my moments of oblivion that I previously embraced as resilience, I should draw on those experiences to harness this innate ability to be oblivious so that I can continue to feign resilience.

    Fake it until you make it, right? Who can truly lay claim to sincerity when such a claim requires a healthy dose of self-indulgence to begin with? But that’s a post for another day. My brain is tired. And if you can make sense of this post, please take a moment to explain it to me as well.

  • Defining Moments

    I’ve often mulled over the idea of one day listing the moments that I believe defined me in ways I often still don’t fully understand.

    The images that flash through my mind when I contemplate those defining moments are often not scenes of hope and happiness, but most often they’re scenes of struggles, pain, isolation, betrayal, and detachment. Being one of six siblings in a small house makes it easy to disappear into the clutter. Sibling rivalry never needed solicitation.

    Standing in the cold night air urinating into the flower bed in front of my uncle’s house when I was a scared little kid barely 6 years old, I remember staring across the road at the sight of my mother standing in tears under the carport of our house out of concern for my wellbeing. I was physically dragged by my collar and kicked out of the house for not being able to find something I didn’t lose. A lesson my father thought was very much needed in order to teach me not to forget my jacket outside after playing with my cousins; so he chose to hide it away until he was ready to stop teaching me that lesson. It worked. I’m anally responsible these days.

    Moments like those were numerous and such a harsh approach to establishing discipline was the norm. I often find myself resisting the inclination to apply similarly harsh measures in dealing with untoward behaviour from my children. It’s strange how easily we adopt the nature of those that reared us, despite having had distinctly distasteful moments at their hands. I was born with an inherent resilience that prevented me from seeking affirmation from others. I was odd and I didn’t give a damn, and for the most part I still don’t. I sat and browsed through encyclopaedias that showed me life in full colour while siblings, cousins, and friends played cricket in the streets of the township where we lived. I sometimes joined them, but it often ended in injury, so there was hardly ever much attraction for me to immerse myself into the sporting experiences that others seemed to live for. This, I realised later in life, was a source of much disappointment for my father. It didn’t deter me. For as long as I can remember, anyone attempting to coerce me into doing something I didn’t like or want for myself often departed frustrated and unfulfilled in their attempts to prevail over me, or the situation.

    My academic achievements at school were largely unnoticed and barely celebrated, until I lost total interest, slipped from the top of the grade to the bottom of the pile, and eventually dropped out of high school without anyone caring, including me. Girls wouldn’t talk to me and guys wouldn’t bully me because neither group knew what to expect in return. But those weren’t particularly defining moments for me.

    Being jailed for bogus charges of domestic violence and child abuse against my own children. Now that was a defining moment, especially since I was the one that called the police to stop the abuse meted out against me for years. My timing as always was impeccable. I chose to do that at a time when domestic violence against women was a priority for the South African justice system. Nonetheless, it spelt the end of a tumultuous relationship with a depraved soul that was diagnosed as having several severe mental disorders, when in fact all she cried for in the most destructive ways was security and affirmation from parents that made dysfunction look like an admirable next step in life. Unfortunately she projected her demons on me and found it therapeutic to win the favour of others by demonising me instead. It was during those four distasteful years that I lost the very few friends whose presence I always cherished in my life up to that point.

    Pacing around the courtyard of the holding cells at our local police station on the coldest night of winter that year left me even more detached. My pleas to the police officer for common sense to prevail echoing in my head while the nagging knowledge of having hardened criminals sleeping in the cell alongside me left little space for peace. But the moon looked distinctly beautiful that night as I watched it cross the sky through the metal grids that sealed the courtyard above the 20 foot high walls, just in case someone was able to climb up the sheer face of it. It was odd how the police officer that arrived on the scene appeared to be more traumatised than I was. I later discovered that he had presided over another arrest relating to domestic violence during which the alleged perpetrator hanged himself in the bathroom. No wonder the indignity I was afforded when I needed to use the bathroom that night before being taken away by the police. I still smile at the memories of standing in the holding cells below the courthouse and having random convicts coming over to me to tell me their stories of claimed innocence. I seem to attract the weirdest kind.

    Wintery nights seem to be the common thread in many defining moments. Years before, I was held at gunpoint by my previous wife while she went through yet another crazy mood swing demanding that I call the police to settle an argument or else she would shoot me with my gun while holding our daughter in my arms. You read that right. It didn’t make sense to me either, but such is the logic of a recovering drug addict. Again, the police were sympathetic towards her, while confiscating my firearm that she mishandled, and asked me to leave the house while entrusting my daughter into her care for the night. Amazing what the weaker sex can get away with.

    My naivety has been a loyal friend throughout my life, and still remains a bosom buddy if recent events are anything to go by. Many accuse me of gullibility, but I would rather live a life of being consciously naïve than to live suspiciously.

    I’ve had good moments, and even a few great ones. I’ve recoiled at the unexpected loss of loved ones, but always receded into a private space to grieve, rarely showing my pain to the world. It’s none of their business after all. The buoyancy of my spirit often mocks me because it leaves me confused about who is being fooled. Or perhaps no one is being fooled, and in fact this inherent resilience that I cannot lay claim to, but nonetheless do possess, perhaps this is what makes it possible for me to see the present moment for what it is rather than what it should be relative to the souring experiences of my past.

    The moments that have defined me are many, but their realisation and conscious recollection still largely eludes me. There is a strong undertone of changes blowing through my life right now. Profound changes that barely show in the normal light of day. Perhaps this is why my mind has been distracted to the point of mild dyslexia recently. My sub-conscious mind is pre-occupied with contemplating these changes, while my conscious mind knows nothing of it in the face of the routine that effortlessly persists.

    I still feel a need to define who I am, but I suspect that I may never fully achieve this goal in this lifetime. Life is…undefinable, and I remain a mystery to myself, and most often, to those around me as well.

  • Moving on

    There’s a difference between giving up and wanting to move on. Too many are shamed into staying because someone convinces them that moving on is giving up. Holding on to a bad experience, or a bad relationship is more reflective of a poor sense of self than it is of commitment. The zombies among us are those that feign loyalty while their true motivation is grounded in guilt. They’re the same ones that are bitter or angry, some passively so, but most aggressively so.

    Too many people I know live their lives committed to fulfilling the expectations of others instead of being true to themselves. Not only do they lack any sincere belief in their self-worth, but they lack any faith in the natural order of the universe. No, this is not a load of hogwash about supposed secrets that teach us that the universe gives us what we ask for. If it was that simple, we’d have world peace and beggars would indeed be riding Arabian stallions. The law of cause and effect is the universal order that we lose sight of too often.

    There is a fine line between making a choice out of commitment as opposed to making it out of conviction. Chances are, most that read this can barely tell the difference in their lives any longer. The more we focus on fulfilling the expectations of others, the more we convince ourselves that indeed that must be our purpose, and therefore our conviction in life. How we lie to ourselves to pacify our conscience when it nags at us asking what great purpose does our life serve. The most pacifying response is to convince ourselves that we lead a life of selfless service to others. So does a door mat.

    Service to others is not sacrificing yourself, but rather sacrificing your ego to allow them to view your vulnerability in a way that strengthens them. We draw comfort from knowing we can comfort. We draw strength from knowing we can protect. Yet we’re always in search of those weaker than us, or holding on to those needing our strength, rarely realising that there are others, significant others, that need to draw on our weaknesses so that they in turn can feel strong, significant, or worthy of providing comfort.

    Sometimes we stay because we don’t believe we’re deserving of better. Sometimes we stay because we hold a deep conviction that we are able to create something better. And sometimes we’re entirely oblivious as to why we stay because we’ve restrained ourselves from moving on for so long, that we’ve conditioned ourselves to believe that every reason to do so has been exhausted, and the only rational option that remains is to stay and draw strength from the morbid comfort of familiarity.

    There is a difference between giving up and wanting to move on. I choose to move on, not because I lack loyalty or commitment, but because I demand it as well. And when it is lacking, I refuse to accept that my self loathing should drive me to believe that I deserve nothing more. My greatest achievement in life has been to rid myself of the expectation of pleasing others. It came at a price. Often a very expensive price. But the liberation that it afforded me was and still is priceless. Living without feeling obliged, knowing that every act is one of choice and not obligation, knowing that every reciprocation is one of gratitude and not guilt, and knowing that favour is not my motivator but fulfilment is. That is what moving on has allowed me to achieve. The sweetness of being independent of man, but dependent on faith only. It has made me realise exactly how fickle I am, so that I find myself praying that others around me find the same comfort in faith, because fulfilment is evasive in their services to me. And so I pray that they also find comfort in moving on, even from me if needed, if that is what will give them the sweet taste of that most lonely of liberations.

  • From Disappointment, to Despondence, to Depression

    I saw a meme this week that suggested that the reason a baby cries at the time of birth is because that experience is the worst experience of its life. It seemed like just an interesting observation at first, but later I realised that it spoke volumes about perception and reality. Several incidents since then, including the passing of Robin Williams prompted me to revisit many aspects of how poorly we define our own realities.

    At times in my life when I was riding the crest of the wave, I found myself mildly annoyed by the actions of others that did not meet my expectations. It was easy enough to shrug off because I had enough else happening in my life that made me feel accomplished and relevant. So I would ignore it and instead polarise towards those groups or activities that bred positivity in my life. After some time, the trend of being disappointed by the actions of significant others seemed to grow, and given a few stumblings of my own, I found those disappointments weighing down on me much heavier than before. Suddenly I didn’t have the abundance of good vibes from the crest of the wave to keep me grounded in positivity, and so I slipped from being easy going, to being disappointed.

    That disappointment grew as my reality continued to throw curve balls at me. I started wondering where did I make a wrong turn. When did the wave throw me over so that I would find myself crashing into its trough? Blaming myself for my slide didn’t help much, and soon enough I found that the disappointment started turning into despondency and a deeply ingrained sense of sadness. That sadness lingered longer than the brief smiles I would muster. But I still found myself questioning myself. I questioned my worth to those around me who kept disappointing me, and I questioned my competence to make the right decisions to break this cycle that I found myself in, but all I ended up with were questions and no answers.

    I kept doing what I thought was the right thing, but I found myself challenged to uphold the principles that I subscribed to. The more I tried to live a principled life, the more I found people in my life demanding a response from me that would force me to choose. Be true to my principles and values, or succumb to their pressure so that I would feel included? Inclusion was another evasive aspect of my life. Perhaps that is why I find it so easy to dismiss the negativity associated with being the odd one out. So I chose to be principled, and despite being true to myself, the disappointing reaction I got from those that were encouraging me to throw caution to the wind and live a little weighed down on me even more. And so I continued to question myself, even though I couldn’t find enough reason to abandon my principles.

    So the slide into despondency continued. I looked at the pitfalls of the lives of those around me, the emptiness, the trinkets, the lies, and most of all the insincerity. All it did was make me more adamant to hold on to what I chose for myself even though holding on grew more difficult by the day. There were endless cycles of insincere ones coming into my life, celebrating my resolve, embracing my principles and me along with it, and then drifting away when the burden of commitment to our shared ideals became too burdensome for them. The moment it meant reducing their popularity with the social circles that they aspired to be a part of, they abandoned those principles because affirmation was more important. Being insincere didn’t bother them, because the people they aspired to be like were equally insincere, which made it acceptable.

    I didn’t want that for myself, and so I continued to search each time for someone that appeared sincere in their conviction to subscribe to that which I subscribed to. But the cycle ended in disappointment each time, and each time I found myself contemplating the hopelessness of it all more seriously than the last. The hopelessness quickly grew into depression until I was diagnosed as being depressed and placed on medication to help me out of what was assumed to be a clinical condition that I had acquired.

    The medication didn’t help. If anything, it made me feel numb. I didn’t want to feel numb. At least in the disappointment and the depression there was still a sense of purpose and passion. Even though that purpose and passion didn’t always bring me joy, it still gave me a reason to want to prevail. But now all I felt was numbness. My jaw tightened, but my senses dulled. I was easier for people to tolerate, but my contempt for what I saw outside of me started being redirected internally. I didn’t like the state I found myself in. I didn’t like the lack of passion or purpose that I felt, and the entire situation was unnatural. I was not me anymore, and I hated it. So I stopped. I weaned myself off my medication, visited my psychiatrist once again, and he confirmed that it was the quickest recovery he had ever seen. His praise fell on deaf ears.

    I soon realised that the medication didn’t alter what I despised in those around me. Nor did it give me reason to change my conviction about right and wrong. With or without the medication, my reality remained my reality. The only difference was, with the medication I was numb and unable to respond to it effectively, while without it I was forced to deal with the full impact of it. I chose the latter because I knew that inaction and passivity, as was my perpetual state with the medication, was not a life to be lived. It was merely an existence that made me more tolerable for others, and made others less annoying for me. At best, it was a distraction, but at worst, it was a nightmare, with me standing on the outside looking in. Those moments when I tried to scream and no sound came out. It reminded me of those dreams when I saw myself trying to drive a car that I had no control over. The lights would go out, the brakes would fail, the steering would be unresponsive, and I would end up lying upside down with the car on its roof, entirely unable to influence the outcome, and my scream remained a silent scream. That was what the medication did to me. At least without it, I could scream. I could beat my chest and curse the world. I was not powerless. And that’s when it hit me.

    My diagnosis of depression had nothing to do with a clinical state that I had acquired. Instead, my clinical state was in fact a result of my reality. My depression was my way of expressing my dissatisfaction with the world, and those that I held to be significant in my life. The more they didn’t react, the more I expressed, until eventually I forgot why I chose to express myself that way.  They stopped caring enough to even attempt to understand, and all I was left with was the reality that I was alone, with little to no joy in my life, and still surrounded by the same people that either didn’t care, or were too distracted to notice. I was not a victim of depression. Depression was my chosen form of expression. But when it didn’t yield the response I was looking for, I once again found myself asking questions for which I had no answers.

    I think that’s part of the problem in that state. The less answers I had, or more importantly, in the absence of answers that appeased my needs, I slipped further into the belief that I probably just wasn’t significant enough for anyone to want to do what was important for me. And they must know what is important for me because I had been expressing my dissatisfaction for so long that surely they could have figured it out by now if only they cared enough, right? So it stood to reason that they probably just didn’t care enough. I needed to make a choice. Continue to abandon myself in the hope that they will notice and respect me, or abandon my expectations of them and give up my principles in order to feel included.

    I chose me. I chose my principles. And most importantly, I chose to stand unapologetically for what I believe to be right, in spite of what is socially acceptable. This increased the accusations against me of having unrealistic expectations. It increased the isolation when I challenged people’s insincerity or hypocrisy, but none of it deterred me. I saw my weaknesses in those around me. Some of them put in a sincere effort to overcome it, like me. But most choose to live in denial because of the fear of losing those that they still wish would recognise their significance.

    Depression set in when I looked for people to respect those things that I felt most passionate about and instead only found ridicule and rejection instead. It set in when I abandoned myself in favour of others, only to find that they had abandoned me as well. Depression became my voice when I gave up my right to be me. But depression never defined me. It never will. It will always only ever be the most passive form of resistance I would be able to muster up against a cruel world that celebrates conformity while crying out for individuality. It will only be my chosen form of expression as long as I fear rejection from those that I despise at worst, or disagree with at best.

    I now realise that I didn’t abandon myself in favour of others. Instead, I sacrificed what I wanted in the hope that that sacrifice would bring solace and a smile to those that I thought needed it. Unfortunately, I realised too late that no amount of self-sacrifice can fill the void of an ungrateful soul. So now I give without the expectation of receiving. I live with the hope that they will realise what is important rather than being distracted by what is popular. Unfulfilled expectations of significant others can never be remedied by a pill, nor by self-harm regardless of what form it may take. Seeing people for the flawed human beings that they are is the only way to maintain your sanity in an insane society. It’s when you expect perfection from yourself, or others, or both, that you solicit for yourself the most painful reality that need not be experienced.