How to Forgive My Brain

     I know exactly what I don’t want to talk about… exactly what I don’t want to write about.  

     The problem with this reality, this scraping truth, is that at this moment it’s all I can say and it’s all I can think.  If I can’t write about this… then it will be a long time before l I can write at all.  It’s the rhythm of the thoughts in my head and it’s the speed at which words exit my mouth.  This forbidden truth is the tempo of my reality… and I’m not one to write fiction.  

     I’ve been told more than once by the people I love that the things I’ve said or written when I’m most afraid are the things that matter.  I’ve absorbed the lectures and words of my favorite authors and thinkers… that the vulnerable space produces the truest work.  But shit it’s hard.  

     When I was sixteen I was diagnosed with an anxiety disorder, the lineage of which is embedded deeply into my blood, into my beautiful ancestry of tender caretakers and hard workers, of deep thinkers and God ponderers.  I worked hard, as so many of my name have before me, to live in this world with a mind that operates a little bit differently than most… it took years. I really believed I had outrun it. 

      After therapy, medication, meditation, and re-evaluation of beliefs.. I even started to doubt its existence.  It had been so long since I’d felt my hands shake.  It had been so long since I couldn’t shower or sleep without noise to distract me from my own racing mind.  My life began to feel like the causal blur I dreamed of and arrogantly imagined others experienced. 

      It had been years.  

     Then, after my vacation of floating and thoughtless abandon, I began to sweat.  I got chills.  My head felt heavy.  It came back and it is back.  

     What I fear the most about sharing my story, I’ve realized, is that I fear it stands in contrast to what I espouse, what it is I feel most passionately.  I believe the purpose of human life is to manifest the most selfless, compassionate, fully alive version of one’s self.  

     Talking about my own mental illness requires me to talk about ME, the all important self, admits that at my worst…my mind plays a constant news reel cycle of ME.  

     I fear that I have no right to talk about my struggle, as comparatively I’m aware there are so many beautiful humans on this earth whose struggle is mere survival.  The scared voice in my head convinces me that if I ask for help, I’m abandoning the real work I feel I was put on this planet to do.   

     But that’s where the truth, or God maybe shows up. I’m a thinker and a feeler.  I always have been.  While my words might be slow, my brain moves at a pace at which I can barely control. While this hurts me on my worst days, I believe it is my resurrection story and my truest source of purpose.  To look at a world of hurting people and not be hurt, is to not be fully alive.  At the very least, I know I’m quite alive.  

     My mind has brought me every ounce of the immense joy I’ve experienced in my still very young life.  It’s what makes me love reading and writing.  It’s what makes me love my family, my friends, and this world with such intensity.  But it’s time to admit it… my brain hurts sometimes.  If you ever need someone to talk to, it could be me.  I guess we don’t always choose our purpose.  

Democracy 2016

   I have a lot of friends who hate talking politics… and I get it. 

     I understand that the wheeling and dealing of millionaires in Washington D.C. and at some United Nations conference in Switzerland doesn’t change much about most of our tangible realities.  Most of us will continue to go to work five days out of the week. We will continue to laugh about the same silly stories from our past weeks or years. We will continue to drink and dance and worry about money… and I truly believe we will continue to have conversations around tables that touch on a reality far deeper than the one we hear about on the news.. the kind of deep truths that only personal experiences and relationships can bring us. 

     So I’ve been contemplating what it is about political debate, then, that I still love, and I think it’s the way that it forces us to sharpen.. or soften.. our perspective of a world inhabited by so many people and communities other than our all-important “selves”. 

I love these conversations because they point to enlightenment. How highly do you value the policies of any one candidate or party that would do wonderful things… but only for people whose stories are identical to yours? How tightly to you hold to your own comfort?

The most beautiful political opinion or any opinion, in my perspective, is the kind that gives value to the concerns of people whose stories look nothing like mine.  If I were to base my political opinions on solely my own experiences, I’m far overestimating my own importance, my own story… and there is no way the seven billion people on this planet, or the three-hundred million people in this country, would holistically benefit from the economic and social policies that would benefit Crosby Damron and family.  

But hey.. I’ve always been self deprecating. 

Progress for the sake of progress

     I used to say I saw no value in small talk.  I used to condemn it strictly for its shallow inquiries, and its tendency to encourage us to never actually open our bored ears.  How's school? How's work? How are your parents or your kids?  I can't remember what I answered or worse, what you said.
      I don't hate it so much anymore though.  To be honest, I think I shied away from it so vehemently because I was embarrassed of my answers.  When my parents' friends or acquaintances strolled in to buy coffee at my work, I would begin to formulate half-true answers to all too typical questions.  "I'm in online school", "I'm about to get promoted", "I'm trying to move out of town", or "I'm looking for another job"... struggling to justify my existence to practical strangers.  I'm worried we do this in smaller ways all the time.
     It turns out, though, there is more value in this kind of conversation than I ever imagined.  So much fodder for what I think and write has stemmed from my discomfort at the assessments we make of each other based off of information that is entirely non-reflective of our cores.   It is what we ask each other when we don't listen, the questions we ask rhetorically, assuming the answers are given, that point solely at what we have been taught and accept as the stipulations for a valuable life. Most of these conversations at my age, maybe at any age, boil down to an explanation of our never-ending movement, always ensuring each other that we are in the midst of a whirlwind of progress.  "Trust me, please. Believe I'm working towards something better than where I am now."
     We feel guilty at the audacity of the thought, embarrassed to admit, that maybe we're standing still.
     And this is where remembering that I'm one of seven billion beautiful humans on this earth has changed me.
     I make very close to minimum wage, sure.  Still, the externals of my life on paper would make me look like a damn Beverly Hills socialite in comparison to millions of our suffering human brothers and sisters.
    I've visited foreign countries with people I love.
    I own a car.
    I cook beautiful meals for my friends.
    I drink clean water thoughtlessly.
    I buy myself beer and makeup.
    I go to concerts.
    I'm surrounded by creative people who have the luxury of contemplating artistic pursuits.
   And what if career and school wise I aspired to nothing more?

     Do I want to better myself? Absolutely.
That sounds like constantly striving to love my friends and family better, to learn as much as I can about the world outside of myself, to absorb the words of poets and authors that ignite the fire of my own creativity.

     I hope we can stop explaining our progress in terms of countable productivity, because it's not who we are.  Let's tell each other what we've been reading or what makes us dance.  Tell me what's bubbling out of your soul... because what we do might have nothing to do with who we are. I am content with where I am, no progress to speak of, but I promise you my soul is still moving.

Right Here Right Now

Twenty-two is a weird age. I’m very much a kid and I feel that truth in my bones.  I stay up unreasonably late, dance for so long at bars that my feet hurt in the morning, and accept invitations to practically every social opportunity over enthusiastically. I require at least two days of my mom’s pep talks before doctor’s appointments and avoid setting up a 401k because I can’t imagine parting with fifty dollars of fun money every month… money I quite easily justify spending on fancy candles or concert tickets. 

Interestingly enough, this kid lifestyle is pretty new to me. Anyone acquainted with me at seventeen can attest to that. I’ve always been a thinker, at times for better and at times for worse. Obsessed with my own anxiety, my responsibility to save the world, and my desperation for the approval of others, I sacrificed the possibility of experience in a years-long attempt to figure out what it “means” to be alive… the purpose of the human experience. Luckily though, I failed. I wrote about it, I read about it, I cried about it. 

I’m done philosophizing my way out of life, because it doesn’t work. I can read and write about social theory, ponder with the smartest friends I have for hours about how relationships are supposed to work, develop staunch opinions on the importance of maintaining strict standards for human interaction… and then still end up with my heart-broken when a boy changes his mind about me. The silliest of young adult moments, the kind I was sure I was above… there’s no running from them. No opinion in the world, even the most beautiful words from your favorite poet, can safeguard you from experience. Because it is life itself, not the analysis of it, that cultivates and sets a flame under truth. 

How about we plant ourselves here, right where we are? I’m learning to develop my “life theories” while I live, not before I live. I don’t want to float above experience and comment while the rest of the world dances or suffers.. because my feet are planted here and I want to soak it all in like the burning rays of the sun.  I’m done living a life of ideas and turning it in for a life grounded in moments, because as it turns out you can’t distance yourself from your own story… and I’m tickled to have discovered that life has been chasing me for quite a while. 

If I Believed in God Part 2: The Death Hour

     I used to think I was unique for having an anxiety disorder... generalized anxiety disorder as my charming grandfather-like psychiatrist specified quite nonchalantly to the sixteen year-old version of myself.  I thought it was slightly glamorous and comforting, an excuse to let my brain off the hook.  The dark weight, though, rolled in and reminded me that it's always been pretty sickening. I stumbled upon my own mortality at age six, while bouncing on a trampoline and cried to my mom that I couldn't believe a day will come when "I don't have any thoughts".  The terror of this weird realization haunted me until last year when I finally mustered up the willpower to go to a "cognitive therapist". With some characteristic rambling to a man I didn't know outside of the confines of that bleak-looking room and a whole lot of work... I conquered this death obsession for now. I am uncomfortably conscious of my reality, that this obsession will likely be replaced with something new, but in this moment, my mind is peaceful.  I'm pretty damn thankful.  Now I'm trying to find some meaning... to find out why God would have implanted this debilitating obsession with life's brevity in my brain for so many years... and the truth is screaming, reeling around in my eardrums.
     If I believed in God... he would want his followers to plant themselves firmly in the here and now... on the dirt of this Earth with the people it sustains.  We are supposed to be here.
     The sacred texts I learned in church regarding the after-life are mythical... airy words, romantic promises of a future we hope for but can't really feel.  Less vague and more tangible?  The calls to action in this life... calls to love one another, to work towards justice, to withhold judgement, to protest on behalf of the poor and the oppressed.
     Our obsession with the insignificance of this temporary life threatens to convince believers that the betterment of life on Earth is futile, insignificant in the light of eternity.  In this strain, where is the drive to feed a starving child?  If what awaits the impoverished is a life in paradise after their quickly impending deaths... then all we must do is convince them to claim Jesus? No... if I believed in God... we feed them and protest the hoarding mentality that sustains poverty.
     I think a lot about the scripture, "Thy will be done on Earth as it is in Heaven".  I want to live and work for justice like this life I have on Earth is the most divine thing I will ever experience, because it feels immensely sacred.  How do we conquer death? We live... because it's really fun.
     

If I Believed In God Part 1: Camp Nelson

     My grandfather, Duane Damron, recently turned 80.  At his charming birthday party, I cried as my family and I sang Buck Owens songs with him, loud and giggling in his house perched high on a Bakersfield hilltop. The gifts his life has given me danced along in my mind to to the sweet melody of my singing family. One echoing over and over in my soul... my Papa taught me to love nature.  Not remotely a conscientious environmentalist, my Papa's fondness for the Earth is one of tradition and divine respect.  My Papa and Grandma Frances raised only boys and bought a simple cabin high in the Sequoia National Forest as soon as they could afford it, a wilderness untamed enough to wear out the energy of three hyper little boys. As my divine luck would have it, my cousins and I ventured to this same haven every year of our own childhoods.  We caught salamanders, fell in rivers, buried ourselves in snow, and trekked mud through the carpets of the cabin for years... all the while I fell in quiet love with nature.

     If I believed in God... this God would inspire his followers to recognize his existence in these quiet places and require of them the prioritization of its reverence and conservation. If God didn't intend for humans to marvel at and fight for nature... how can we possibly justify the beauty that exists on this planet? I have to believe the Yosemite Valley and the peaks of Patagonia serve more of a purpose than to remind us that God is talented... they must be a call to action: to seek to make God's "will be done on Earth as it is in Heaven".  If Yosemite is God's will... then damn I'm all for it.

If I believed in God, I would believe that every time a Christian supports the compromise of nature for the idol of financial gain... his heart breaks.  

If I Believed in God... The Preface

For the first time in years, my brother and I live in the same house.  I’m kind of giddy about it.  We’ve spent countless nights over the course of the past few weeks sitting on our parents’ patio late into the night. Illuminated by candles and the moon, we’ve drank one too many glasses of wine, sang songs way too loudly, and reacquainted ourselves with each other as adults. This moment in time feels like a very intentional blessing as I sense his life is about to transition into something big and magical, making these evenings together so sacred. 

Where I’m chatty, Cooper selects his words carefully. While all of my thoughts tend to grow into passionate lengthy run on sentences of which I can’t quite control the speed, Cooper speaks softly and more selectively.  He’s the kind of guy that when he decides to enter into a conversation, people really focus. So when Cooper told me at our most recent patio party that I should reconsider how I approach my spirituality… I cried because I’m sappy and I agreed because I respect him. 

I resigned myself from Christianity a few years ago. I haven’t been to church since, I haven’t read the Bible, and I haven’t prayed in the way I tried pretty desperately to for the first eighteen years of my life.  However, I still sense within myself a love for an admittedly nameless God, mostly manifested in an overwhelming sense of love and responsibility for the universe and for humanity.  My resignation from the Christian faith had less to do with God though, and more to do with people.  

I hate offending people.  I have an intense respect for religion and appreciate how sacred and intense those beliefs are to people to whom I owe everything.  Hence, when I realized my beliefs about God and scripture had potential to seem combative or contrary… I decided to separate myself altogether. I wanted to give people permission to dismiss me.  If I wasn’t a part of their group, people I had potential to offend could stop listening to me. I desperately wanted that freedom because I needed reprieve.  The life of a rumored atheist seemed like a warm and relaxing cave in which to dwell for a while. 

However, my brother has summoned me from my years-long vacation.  There is a chance, I suppose, that the thoughts about God that plagued me as a child were planted in me for a purpose: to spark up a freewheelin’ conversation about the divine with the people I love, to encourage vulnerable discourse around patio tables about faith and fear. Our lives are pretty short so we might as well take that risk… I’ll go first. 

To force myself to stick with it I’ve thought in advance of a few perhaps not politically correct beliefs I hold about God.  I plan on latching onto one per week… a little blog series if you will. I’m pretty apprehensive but… here goes nothin’. Each week I’ll introduce the God I could commit myself to, the potential aspects of a possible Creator that seem the most beautiful to me.  Forgive any guaranteed accidental blasphemy… we’re all just little specks searching for truth to love and I for one can use all the help I can get.