“I don’t judge you at all, but…”
It’s nearly 1am. I’m not yet sleepy and I’ve run out of things I could be bothered to do. You’d be surprised how rare that is. I bet it hasn’t happened in around two years.
Just got off a vague and rambling Skype call with Anita. I’m trying to look with amusement at people’s stumbling efforts not to judge me. It’s touching that they try. Really. It’s not as though "not judging me" is a skill I’ve mastered. You know, the things people say really show up the holes in their imagination. They say I ought to have more to do, because they imagine I am idle. They say I need a greater drive for success, because they imagine I have no goals. They say I need more direction, and imagine I have no introspection. What does it add up to? They see I’m not working, and assume I should be.
Talk about Protestant work ethic gone bananas. How would they manage under disabling health problems that get worse with work? I’m guessing they’d do roughly as well as I did back in 2005, before I quit. That’s nearly five years ago now. It’s reminding me of things I read about people with terminal illness dealing with their impending death. Their families often delay or reverse their progress in dealing with it because the relatives don’t get it yet. The relatives are at a much earlier stage of understanding and dealing with the inevitable, and they can’t understand where the dying one is at, and so frustrate their progress.
None of my friends and relatives – with the possible exception of Alexander – imagine that there could be something useful to learn from this experience. They all see it as a problem rather than an opportunity. I personally suspect it was part of my life plan when I incarnated.
I know people will hate me for saying this, but despite the alienation it engenders, chronic illness is a fascinating place from which to watch the rat race go by. It’s fascinating, dispiriting, and maddeningly frustrating to watch the vast colony of frenzied activity. So much stress for so little happiness. So much mess for so little beauty. So much tedium for so little relief. An endless sea of rats swimming with no shore in sight. I’m not surprised they make me the target for their discontent, but I know I’m not the real problem. If I died tomorrow, they’d still be treading water. As I would be if I could join them. As I am, even now.
Maybe I’m learning patience. Anita seemed horrified at my suggestion that sometimes you just have to wait. I’m a little surprised myself. Maybe I’m finally learning to be okay with being exactly where I am.