Sometimes the paths down which I haven't traveled appear to hold more appeal than the ones I have followed and leave me wondering "what if?"
Only a hair's breadth seems to have separated a potentially vastly different life from the one I now know. It's probably best to relegate those "what ifs?" to the trash-bin area of my compartmentalization and not dwell on them, but, still, some linger.
For example, what if I had squeezed the trigger when I held the loaded gun to my head when I was 17 or 18 or whatever I was? I didn't think it was loaded, so imagine how surprised I would have been had I squeezed the trigger. If you can be surprised and dead. Or would there have been a moment between squeezing the trigger and its penetration of my skull when I would have realized that it was loaded?
That would have been an accident, but I can substitute any number of times when I considered doing it deliberately. Had I done so, I like to imagine the "It's a Wonderful Life Scenario." My girlfriend would have become an old maid. Mr. Potter would have taken over the town. But, really, I would have spared myself a fair amount of pain, though probably not much would have been different for everyone else. That girlfriend split, anyway. She would just have gotten an earlier start. I can't say my family would have ended up much worse off. I can't imagine how it could be much worse off.
The people who know me now and might not like to think about my absence would never have known me in the first place. So they'd be all right. The kids wouldn't exist. There could be some aspects to this of which I'm unaware. Maybe I've saved people's lives without even realizing it. And maybe in saving those lives I've touched a number of other lives. Maybe if I hadn't been driving on a certain day in a certain place, there would have been an accident that killed a child. Much of this remains beyond my capability to process. Being a natural optimist, I guess I just have to allow for the possibility that I've done more than I realize.
What if I hadn't gone to that elitist all-male high school? I would have had more time with my friends at the public school, which could have been detrimental to everyone's well-being, considering the activities in which we engaged when we were together. Maybe we were just making the most of our time during those times. Would I have had more girlfriends than I had? Perhaps, and that might have been good. But, who knows, maybe someone would have gotten pregnant. I wouldn't have gotten as good an education at the public school, but I still could have ended up in the same college. Like my friends who went to the public school and didn't bust their asses to get by. Or maybe, with a different girlfriend, I would have gone to a different college. Maybe I would have liked the area where the different college was situated and stayed there. Then I probably wouldn't be working where I do. Which leads me to my next point.
What if I hadn't taken this job? As a journalist, I'm pretty sure I made the wrong career choice. I don't think I need to verify that with a bunch of sources, either. What else would I be doing? I got in to law school but decided not to attend. If I were a lawyer, what kind would I be? The corporate guy putting in a bunch of hours making a mint? Public defender? Someone who makes sure the contract is all squared away when you're buying a house? Who does your will? I think not becoming a lawyer probably was a good idea, since I've tended not to enjoy exposure to them. Those motherfuckers always search for an angle. I've often thought I should have pursued a medical degree but, while in school, I sucked at chemistry and biology. By the time I started to care about that shit, I would have had to make up a lot of ground. Too late now, and the doctors I know decry all the red tape. I could have become a teacher and coach, but that would have left me wondering about opportunities forgone. If only I had had the benefit of hindsight then.
What if I had never tried antidepressants or gotten electroconvulsive therapy? I don't think I'd be dead if not for the drugs, but perhaps if not for the ECT. So, what if I hadn't had ECT? Who knows?
What if I hadn't gotten married? What if I had married someone different? It all gets murky.
When I considered leaving the high school I attended, a teacher had lunch with me and told me that it might be a mistake to leave but that I couldn't treat it as a mistake. Once I did it, that became the new reality, and if I went along treating it as a mistake, it could become a self-fulfilling prophecy.
A whole universe exists. Different people in different places. Perhaps a seemingly mundane occurrence could have caused a seismic life shift. If I hadn't gone to college there and that professor hadn't recommended that I interview for the internship and I hadn't gotten a job with the company, I wouldn't have met people with whom I've had 20-year relationships. But I would have encountered an entirely different group of people. If I had gone to that restaurant five minutes earlier, I might have met someone and my life might not resemble what it has become. Maybe the guys in the Lifetime movies have it down; they lead those parallel lives, with one family here and the other family over on the other side of town. Or the people who have the life at home with the family but have the girlfriend or the boyfriend or whatever. We walk a fine line between being who we are and who we're not. I guess the more we spend time on what if leads to less time dedicated to what is.
Friday, August 27, 2010
Friday, August 13, 2010
The Persistence of Memory
Memory sometimes has served me well. I didn't have to study too hard for tests in school, at least the ones that required only a regurgitation of information. Those tests made up the majority, as opposed to exam questions that required consideration. The recollection of people's names has come relatively easily, which sometimes can help to avoid awkward situations. I used to think others should remember me as easily as I remembered them, but I got over it.
Learning new tasks at work probably would have been more difficult had recollection not come easily. But having the ability to remember also can lead readily to boredom, since those tasks require less concentration than they would for someone who can't remember as well. So, memory has its upside.
The downside consists of having too much information. That can lead to fatigue. When you're predisposed to depression, you likely have experienced many more events that you'd rather forget than remember. Problem is, you can't. That post-electroconvulsive-therapy period, during which I retained only fragments of memories, while somewhat disconcerting, also provided a welcome relief from the tyranny of remembering. Maybe that's why drinking holds appeal. Alcohol can induce forgetfulness. I'm scared to quit drinking for good, because then I'll remember every fucking thing. "Ignorance is bliss" came from somewhere.
I've also noticed that different people remember the same events differently. So that's interesting. Except most of the people I know can't recollect things as accurately as I can. They think they can, of course, because that's their recollection. This seems particularly to apply to females. I think sometimes the differences may result from how we process events to begin with. If we didn't see the situation the same way to start, I suppose we never would have memories that agree.
Some people bend memories to extraordinary degrees to suit their preferences. I envy them. Many don't even do it deliberately. It must be liberating to have that kind of mind, the one that enables you to remember things how you want to remember them and not how they really occurred. And not even know you're doing it. That seems like a key to happiness, but I'll never know.
Learning new tasks at work probably would have been more difficult had recollection not come easily. But having the ability to remember also can lead readily to boredom, since those tasks require less concentration than they would for someone who can't remember as well. So, memory has its upside.
The downside consists of having too much information. That can lead to fatigue. When you're predisposed to depression, you likely have experienced many more events that you'd rather forget than remember. Problem is, you can't. That post-electroconvulsive-therapy period, during which I retained only fragments of memories, while somewhat disconcerting, also provided a welcome relief from the tyranny of remembering. Maybe that's why drinking holds appeal. Alcohol can induce forgetfulness. I'm scared to quit drinking for good, because then I'll remember every fucking thing. "Ignorance is bliss" came from somewhere.
I've also noticed that different people remember the same events differently. So that's interesting. Except most of the people I know can't recollect things as accurately as I can. They think they can, of course, because that's their recollection. This seems particularly to apply to females. I think sometimes the differences may result from how we process events to begin with. If we didn't see the situation the same way to start, I suppose we never would have memories that agree.
Some people bend memories to extraordinary degrees to suit their preferences. I envy them. Many don't even do it deliberately. It must be liberating to have that kind of mind, the one that enables you to remember things how you want to remember them and not how they really occurred. And not even know you're doing it. That seems like a key to happiness, but I'll never know.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Stages
Life plays itself out in stages. The earliest stage from which I've retained potent memories involved my maternal grandparents, with whom I spent an inordinate amount of time. My father would have needed to be present more to qualify as a stage. Same for his parents. From them I've taken away snapshots, as opposed to the feature films of other aspects of my life.
These phases necessarily pollute one another, though they retain separate identities. Sometimes I circle back to a previous phase and get momentarily confused about which phase I'm really in. Phase confusion. Like when you meet someone you used to know or a childhood friend. But all the intervening stuff has changed me, so as much as I might feel nine years old again when I see that boyhood friend, the feeling proves fleeting. Maybe people don't really come full circle unless they're infirm. You get old, you lose control of bodily functions, you regress cognitively. Then you're coming full circle. But, otherwise, the accumulation of life's travails and joys and learning experiences forever preclude you from a return to ignorance or bliss.
I recently experienced a stage overlap. My mother, having lost part of her brain to a stroke, for the time being resides in a facility about a quarter-mile from the one in which I underwent electroconvulsive therapy. To visit her, I went past the place where I spent, I think, three weeks. Before trying to locate her new residence, I wouldn't have been able to get back to my ECT place. So I pulled into the parking lot of that place, and I saw myself standing outside the door smoking a cigarette 16 years ago. Where does the time go. For a brief instant, I occupied that space and time again, and then I pushed it away. Buried for the time being in its own compartment.
Now the stage has changed, but every once in a while I feel the tug of a preceding one. I have children. If there were a waiting period to have children while the authorities did a background check, like there is for a gun, would I have been allowed to have children? We're sorry, but you're way too fucked up to have children. I don't think I could buy a gun, but kids, all I needed was a partner. And who would be those authorities who decide whether someone else can have a child? The Supreme Court? Three generations of imbeciles is enough? Catholics? Protestants? Atheists? Me and you and a dog named Boo? Because sometimes it seems like the inmates are running the asylum. Sometimes I look at the kids and the house and myself and wonder how I could be the same person. ECT isn't like having a wart removed. If nothing else, there's a psychological residue.
Some phases appear to be a function of age. As a young man, sports played a prominent role. I outgrew that, but now my kids' involvement has reignited a certain passion that had lain dormant. Stage confusion again. Except now I'm not as physically capable. So the intervening years have influenced the extent to which I can immerse myself in what at one time had been an integral part of life.
The stage that has the longest-lasting impact has to be the one in which people live with their parents. It never ends for some, but for most, it's a stage that consumes an influential chunk of time and contains numerous substages. These substages sometimes give rise to parent-child conflict. Like experimenting with drugs and drink and contending with hormones. I suppose some skip the drugs and drink part. Other people get tattoos and dye their hair pink. Whatever. Burgeoning independence provides a transitional time in which we're transferring to another stage. College, for some, offers this opportunity. Then comes marriage, or just living on one's own. And divorce. Or having kids. Then you have to start paying attention to stuff that previously didn't register, like shit that's fucked up for people over a certain age.
So, what's the next stage. No way to know, I suppose.
Funny that my mother is losing her mind right up the street from where mine lost me for a while.
These phases necessarily pollute one another, though they retain separate identities. Sometimes I circle back to a previous phase and get momentarily confused about which phase I'm really in. Phase confusion. Like when you meet someone you used to know or a childhood friend. But all the intervening stuff has changed me, so as much as I might feel nine years old again when I see that boyhood friend, the feeling proves fleeting. Maybe people don't really come full circle unless they're infirm. You get old, you lose control of bodily functions, you regress cognitively. Then you're coming full circle. But, otherwise, the accumulation of life's travails and joys and learning experiences forever preclude you from a return to ignorance or bliss.
I recently experienced a stage overlap. My mother, having lost part of her brain to a stroke, for the time being resides in a facility about a quarter-mile from the one in which I underwent electroconvulsive therapy. To visit her, I went past the place where I spent, I think, three weeks. Before trying to locate her new residence, I wouldn't have been able to get back to my ECT place. So I pulled into the parking lot of that place, and I saw myself standing outside the door smoking a cigarette 16 years ago. Where does the time go. For a brief instant, I occupied that space and time again, and then I pushed it away. Buried for the time being in its own compartment.
Now the stage has changed, but every once in a while I feel the tug of a preceding one. I have children. If there were a waiting period to have children while the authorities did a background check, like there is for a gun, would I have been allowed to have children? We're sorry, but you're way too fucked up to have children. I don't think I could buy a gun, but kids, all I needed was a partner. And who would be those authorities who decide whether someone else can have a child? The Supreme Court? Three generations of imbeciles is enough? Catholics? Protestants? Atheists? Me and you and a dog named Boo? Because sometimes it seems like the inmates are running the asylum. Sometimes I look at the kids and the house and myself and wonder how I could be the same person. ECT isn't like having a wart removed. If nothing else, there's a psychological residue.
Some phases appear to be a function of age. As a young man, sports played a prominent role. I outgrew that, but now my kids' involvement has reignited a certain passion that had lain dormant. Stage confusion again. Except now I'm not as physically capable. So the intervening years have influenced the extent to which I can immerse myself in what at one time had been an integral part of life.
The stage that has the longest-lasting impact has to be the one in which people live with their parents. It never ends for some, but for most, it's a stage that consumes an influential chunk of time and contains numerous substages. These substages sometimes give rise to parent-child conflict. Like experimenting with drugs and drink and contending with hormones. I suppose some skip the drugs and drink part. Other people get tattoos and dye their hair pink. Whatever. Burgeoning independence provides a transitional time in which we're transferring to another stage. College, for some, offers this opportunity. Then comes marriage, or just living on one's own. And divorce. Or having kids. Then you have to start paying attention to stuff that previously didn't register, like shit that's fucked up for people over a certain age.
So, what's the next stage. No way to know, I suppose.
Funny that my mother is losing her mind right up the street from where mine lost me for a while.
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