Anything I do is more a reflection of myself than the outside world.

You know what I hate. Pretty much the opposite of what I want at the time. If I’m driving slow and the driver behind me is impatiently on my ass then I hate them, and adversely, if a driver is going slow and I’m behind them, I hate the slow driver. I can encompass both polarities of driving. And I can hate both.

If the perception of life is a reflection of the person, when I hate, I hate myself. If I hated anything the most–other than not getting what I want or having what I want taken away–is myself. Adversely, I also love myself.

You can’t hate anything you don’t also love. Or you can only really hate something that was once treasured, or destroys what you treasured or what you thought it was that you treasured. Basic tenants of the Buddhist ideas of the self-grasping “I”, attachment and anger.

I saw a schizophrenic homeless man on the edge of downtown Denver, cussing at no one on the corner. He had a high-pitched voice and was in quite a state. The high-rises of the financial district were behind him. I felt I could relate with him because who doesn’t just want to cuss at the air and rage at the world sometimes.

Sometimes I wish I could destroy a good chunk of my property in a rage, as it seems it could be alleviating, yet I can’t quite muster that type of rage. Just like when I feel like giving up on life, I really can’t follow through with it because the logical conclusion to this is homelessness. I have migraine headaches and enjoy the comforts of having a home. Giving up equates fucking yourself. While we may entertain the thought, the conclusion is more fucked than the emotion currently being entertained.

It’s like when I think, “I”m better off dead.” I’m not. I know this. It’s suicidal cognition, not a suicidal desire. We all think this, at points, some more than others.

I’m in therapy currently, and this isn’t a cry for help. I’m fine. The pain of life is inescapable and universal for all. Enduring pain until joy returns is an idea I had accepted a long time ago. That accepting suffering is freeing in ways, but the idea of accepting suffering loses ground sometimes, like all ideas, merely ideas, thoughts, emotions. They are like us, transient, and sometimes seeming inconsequential.

Anything you say can and will be held against you. You say things and people interpret them. Sometimes, maybe often, this interpretation isn’t what you mean and is misconstrued. A person will reflect this back at you, and you will be aghast that they could interpret that from what you said. You may find it hurtful. The person may explain their reasoning. But basically everything you say, you are fucking yourself because you are being asked to be perceived. The perceiver is chalked full of their own karma, meaning their own subjective perspective. Just as I can hate the driver going either too fast or too slow, no one is perceiving anything correctly because no object can be objectively perceived. Never. This is the basic idea of “the emptiness of meaning” in Buddhism. Basic realities like if you walk in front of car and it hits you and hurts you, are not in this idea of perception.

Patience is the antidote to anger. Anger is the by-product of someone, or something taking away, damaging, or destroying the illusion of what you once were attached. Attachment is perceiving an object as something that will fulfill you and make you happy. And the self-grasping “I” is the perception of “you” (this is a hard one for me) which arises the fundamental problems of life.

My therapist tells me Freud thought depression was actually anger turned inward. I agree.

I also have codependent issues.

Anything I do is more a reflection of myself than the outside world.

This is similar to a schizophrenic yelling nonsense on a corner.


About Brian McElmurry

I live in Denver with my wife and dogs. I'm the author of the novella Rocket Man and have written a few unpublished novels (that are awesome, if you are a publisher/agent). My novella Rocket Man is available here:
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