Tag Archives: moving

A Series of Fortunate Events, Part I

The Selfishness Theorem:

1. Selfishness is not inherently negative or positive.

2. Living for oneself is a natural extension of the evolutionary directive towards self-preservation.

3. Human selfishness can extend beyond the whims and desires of the moment to encompass a greater goal.

4. Cognitively aware selfish behaviour directs us to behave in ways that benefit others, because ultimately this benefits us as herd animals (unselfish behaviour is, at its core, selfish). Selfish behaviour therefore drives a healthy society.

I have explained my idea incompletely, but I hope at least the gist of what I am attempting to say is clear. I am sure my Selfishness Theorem is neither original nor particularly radical (I have been told that it is Randian), but it was the result of original and radical thought on my part when I dared to posit an answer to a question that was thrown accusatively at me over and over again: Can there be morality, or even meaning in life, apart from God?

“No” was the unequivocal answer from pastors, parents and peers, and I, having no other frame of reference, believed them. Truth apart from divinity, they insisted, was void. I could neither believe in, nor worship their God, and, in accordance with all I had been taught I concluded that life was meaningless. Thus, when I found myself waking up in a hospital room that smelled nauseatingly of stomach acid and charcoal, with the heavy weight of a heart that had defied death the night before still beating slowly in my chest, I was angrier than I had ever been before in a life characterised predominantly by rage. Angry at the monitor that counted off my vitals, angry at the doctors who whispered “miracle” to my religious parents, angry at a God I didn’t believe in, and angriest of all that the culmination of nihilism is having nothing to rage against. (This is why the Buddhists are peaceful - they recognize the futility of anger in a world without God).
In my 19 years of having been told that I was selfish and immoral, 19 years of being guilt-ridden and brow-beaten by a religion that is redemptive only to the elect, I, for the first time, had downed two bottles of pills, finally, consciously, done something entirely for myself. Though I did not realise it at the time, selfishness would be my salvation.

Many people will say (with a mixture of derision and fear) that suicide is the most selfish act a person can engage in (intending “selfish” to be taken in a pejorative sense). These people are correct: suicide IS an inherently selfish act, instigated by the pressure to unselfishly meet the demands of others. We are not intended to unselfishly strive to live for others, and our biology rebels against such unnatural acts.

Many people have near-death experiences and find God. Many more people have near-life experiences and continue on in the same rut. I had no God to turn to, and, when the rage died down, I found that my will to live was not obsolete, but was instead crying out for a different life: a life apart from religious guilt and fear, a life not spent in a several-thousand-year-old mold intended to reacreate homo sapiens sapiens in the image of a middle-eastern tribe’s deity. A life not contracted by the morality I learned from infancy, but instead expanding exponentially in curiousity and discovery. The beauty of nihilism, I learned, is freedom.

So, I chose life, in the most Darwinian sense: primeval, raw, and selfish. I fought, I failed, I grieved, I was reckless, thoughtless, utterly selfish, and I began to heal.

Almost two years after my suicide attempt, I realised again that I was spiraling back into deep, terrifying, suicidal depression. This time, though, I was selfish enough to believe I had value, to believe my life was worth preserving. I had spent a lifetime of fighting for others and for whatever cause I was most passionate about at the time, but now I fought for myself, and, again made a conscious decision to be completely selfish. I packed my bags and left Boise.

To be continued…

Call Me Crazy

I’m in Federal Way now, which, for those who are curious, is NOT Seattle, as I so inconsiderately claimed. I only said that because I love you and I want the best for you, and I couldn’t bear to trouble your wee head. Mostly, I said it because saying “I’m moving to Seattle” is a hell of a lot easier than saying “I’m moving to Federal Way”. No, not the street in Boise that goes up near Micron. Federal Way the city. The suburb of Seattle. You see how difficult that is? YOU RUIN MY LIFE WITH YOUR QUESTIONS.

Just kidding. I love you?

Life is pretty great right now. My condo is unbelievably beautiful. Every morning when I wake up, I can’t believe it’s mine. It’s so beautiful, in fact, that I am able to forgive it for the unbelievable, never-ending clutter it emanates. Really, it’s more like projectile vomit, spilling from the guts of every room, than an emanation.

The walls are blue-grey and a gentle rusty red, and because of those walls, I forgave it for making me cry when I opened the pantry door to find dozens of dusty pots and pans intermingled with various foodstuffs and EMPTY BOTTLES OF CLEANER. I cannot emphasise enough just how devestatingly awful it is to find empty, used-up bottles of cleaning supplies. DEAD CLEANING SUPPLIES. CLUTTERING MY PANTRY. If you cannot understand the horror of this, congratulations: you apparently lead a normal, sane, life as a functional adult.

Go away.
You’re making me look bad.

I can forgive the condo its rampant clutter because every wall has pictures my grandmother painted, and they’re beautiful, and perfect, and my heart skips a beat every time I see them. Like the one of the “Wind sisters” riding through the darkness, and the one that looks like a Spanish mansion, but was actually painted in Boston. I can’t wait to take pictures of everything to show you. For now, you’ll just have to believe me that it’s amazing. I live in an art gallery.

I can forgive it the fact that there’s no bed and so I’m sleeping on the couch right now, because when I wake up in the morning the first things I see out the window are three huge, old trees: a cedar and two douglas firs. These trees are older than I am, wiser than I am, and have weathered more storms, and I find that immeasurably comforting. They remind me that I am blessed, and I will endure.

Today I also had to forgive myself for getting out a tape measure to arrange my books and candles on the shelf above the fireplace. Because arranging everything to be equidistant and accurate within 1/4 inch was less time consuming than sitting on the floor crying that a candle looked off center. Have I mentioned lately that I’m crazy? Yeah, I’M FUCKING INSANE. My latent organisational impulses were stifled for far too long after living with roommates and they are here again in full force. Everything must be organised and scrubbed, arranged and re-arranged, and I’m absolutely brutal about throwing things out, or putting them in the Yard Sale pile. Thankfully, the tears have been minimal and progress has been made.

Oh, and since you might have missed this in the last paragraph because you were overwhelmed by all the Crazy: I HAVE A FIREPLACE. It burns real wood. Or fake wood, given enough gasoline. IF YOU HAVE AN ERECTION LASTING MORE THAN FOUR HOURS, PLEASE CALL ME. I need wood.

Also, and this is even more important than the fireplace, so it will be bolded and italicised (but not underlined, because that would just be crazy): I HAVE A DISHWASHER. Did I ever tell you about the time I calculated that I had spent over three solid days of my life doing nothing but washing dishes? Did I tell you that that was over a period of less than six months, and since then I have washed many, many more hours of my life down the drain? There really is no way to describe the psychological damage done to me in the Barry Patch dishwashing days. Days which shall be burned in my mind for all eternity. Days of ever-multiplying piles and piles of dishes. I used to do dishes for fun when I went to friends’ houses, because I liked seeing them when they were all sparkly clean. Now I’m pretty sure that I’ll be washing dishes in Hell, and if that doesn’t scare me onto the straight and narrow I’m not sure what will.

So today when I noticed the dishwasher for the first time (I’m pretty sure I just didn’t see it before because it was too good to be true), I laughed out loud, and then I cried, because it was too beautiful, and then I wrote a twitter about my dishwasher-induced orgasm. I didn’t really have an orgasm. I had a spiritual awakening, which in my confused and euphoric state I called an orgasm, for lack of a better term. In reality, I saw Jesus, seated at the right hand of the Father, and a whole lot of angels, singing for my newly redeemed soul. They were so excited I couldn’t bring myself to tell them that I actually gave my soul to General Electric, the manufacturer of my very own dishwasher.

MY VERY OWN DISHWASHER!!!

If you tell me that Jesus loves me, I might actually believe it now. Any God who giveth dishwashers can’t be all bad.

In the past 48 hours I’ve…

Moved 500 miles.

Spent only $30 on gas to drive said 500 miles. (I got upwards of 35MPG the whole trip, how great is that?).

Moved tons of my Grandma’s stuff, so I now have a place to live.

Slept on a couch.

Hit my head at least five times while getting out of the car.

Left the lights on while I went into a store and came back to find my battery dead. This was much less inconvenient when I could call my brothers, rather than sitting in a parking lot for 45 minutes waiting for someone to come back to one of the vehicles parked in my vicinity.

Re-realised that my parents do not communicate like normal people. I don’t either, unfortunately.

Eaten nothing but sandwiches for every single meal.

Started reading The Silmarrillion again. I think I’m in a bad mood, because it seems far more didactic than I remembered. I get it, Tolkien, Illuvatar is Yahweh, Melkor is Satan. I GET IT ALREADY! It will get better once I’m past the first few chapters.

Did I mention I’m sleeping on a couch? Yeah. That kind of sucks, not because the couch is uncomfortable, but because I’m too tall for it. Pity me.

Now I’m filling out applications for jobs so I won’t be broke and homeless in a few weeks.

It’s Still Lent and I Still Suck.

I’m quitting quitting quitting smoking (trust me, it makes sense. Mostly I just wanted to share my headache with you). Last Sunday I convinced myself that it was okay to smoke, because on Sundays Lent doesn’t count. Obviously, my actual goal is to quit permanently (except, perhaps, occasionally smoking socially), and allowing myself one day a week where all rules go out the window is NOT HELPFUL. I smoked way, way less than usual during the week (averaging about 1-2 cigarettes per day), but each time I just felt like more of a failure, which is a rotten way to feel. So, here’s to starting fresh. I haven’t smoked since Friday, and I’m officially done, always, regardless of Lent. Hopefully marijuana will be legalised soon, I could use some healthy stress relief. (I’m not just saying that to be flippant, the writing is on the wall: check out this TED talk with neurologist Dr. Dean Ornish).

The next few weeks will be so busy, I am tired just thinking about it. I have to pack, clean the house, plan several different events, apply for jobs, and hopefully make some extra money. I’m not terribly excited about it.