Psychology of the Self

 2020.

What a year, amirite?

If you look at it, 2020 seems like a beautiful number. So easily divisible by 2, 5, 10, 20. So round and complete. I don’t think I can explain, but I hope you know what I’m trying to get at. 

To begin with, I didn’t know this year was going to be any different than all the others that I’ve managed to live through. None of us did, I think. I was home when it started, and even when I was surrounded by my parents, my siblings, and my 8-year-old dog, I felt alone. I was unhappy. I wanted to get out of that heavy, depressing atmosphere. I used to blame others for my unhappy self, used to attribute my flaws to the way I was raised, to the people who were unkind to me. I think human beings like doing that a lot. When we think, we’re always thinking in the terms of ourselves - I, me, mine. We’re all the heroes of our stories. Always. We’re the ones wronged, we’re the ones who stood up and got over obstacles and emerged victoriously.

But we’re wrong. We’re all wrong. We’re looking at it wrong. All this while.

The human brain is an amazing thing. If you look at it from Hannibal Lecter’s eyes, it’s just a convoluted mesh of meat that tastes good when baked or fried, like any other animal meat. We’re all animals, are we not?

Let’s keep Dr Lecter aside for a moment though. This fatty mesh of meat, surprisingly, is the seat of everything we are, as a person. Our thoughts, emotions, feelings, intelligence and stupidity, memories, ambitions, sense of personal identity and free will - all in one small pack of meat, a result of nothing but some 100 billion nerve cells.

If we look at it, we’re all made of material. Some people may argue that humans are special because they have a soul but - who the fuck knows? What if it’s just a trick that lets us think that there’s a meaning to everything we do in our lifetimes so that we don’t end up killing ourselves thinking that there’s no point to anything - at all. Sounds plausible, right? 

Anyway - because we’re just flesh and bones, given meaning by neurons, one could say that we’re made of the same stuff as are cycles, utensils, or dogs: an elaborate structure of atoms and molecules. And so, when cycles and utensils can be defective and dogs can be diseased or infected, we’re not special either. We’re in part material; and in part spiritual, mental, and psychological.

Material can be defective, and so can your brain. Even though your brain is highly resistant to damage, it sometimes plays tricks on you - without you even realizing. For example, when you look back at your past life, you may remember things not as they happened, but how you wanted to remember them: a concept popularly known as ‘false memories’. I’m not saying I have a lot of those from my childhood, but it made me realise that I cannot be a cunt and attribute all of it to how i was raised. To base your behaviour in present on the actions of the past - most of which may not even be accurately true - is the sign of an idiot. And I’ve decided to be less of an idiot.

If you’re a regular reader of this blog - I may draw two conclusions: that you wondered where I’ve been for the past two months: whether I died in a horrible accident or was getting skinned alive by a psychopath who went berserk during the lockdown. Ridiculous outcomes, but very much possible; and second, that you definitely have a bad taste in the content you consume. I mean, this blog? Really?

I know nobody probably really cares, but continuing to write as my alter ego, Morticia, I’m here again. I’m not going to say I’m back. Not really. Because I never really left. Even though I haven’t posted anything at all, there hasn’t been a single day in the past two months that I went an entire day without writing anything at all. I’ve been out and about, living my best life.

Everything I’ve done during this time has given me better insights into myself as a person, into the beauty of nature that exists only for those who have the eyes for it, and into human beings. Some animals, even. I’ve been reading an awful lot about Edward Snowden, and the more I read about him and what he did, the more it makes me want to be fearless, open, fierce in my pursuit of living. Thank you, Ed.

I finished reading ‘Brave New World’ by Aldous Huxley, and am currently reading ‘Homo Deus’ by Yuval Noah Harari - an amazing personality I was introduced to by yet another amazing personality who just wouldn’t stop talking about Harari’s book, ‘Sapiens’ when I first met him; who I also have to thank for lending me some of his best books. Thanks, G.

I’ve finally eased into my work life. Working from home for about 3.5 months, I’ve finally started to go to the office regularly. Can I tell you something weird? I had this really stupid feeling initially - that I was gonna get fired sooner or later. I can’t quite explain why. I did eventually realise that I was being illogical, but maybe that is how you feel when you come upon something so amazing, so mind-blowing, that you can’t really believe that it’s real and that it’s yours to keep if you want it. I never thought I’d ever say this, but I really, really enjoy my work. I reckon that’s what happens when you end up doing what you really love? I’ve thanked Hecate, my karma, the universe for being kind to me. But there’s another person I must really, really thank for establishing a work culture that doesn’t clip my creativity and my shitty movie references and puts up with my really bad jokes, my obsession with van Gogh’s Flowers, and my disturbing laughter. Thank you, Beetlejuice.

This doesn’t happen a lot, but every once in awhile, I find a friend or an acquaintance messaging me when they accidentally stumble upon my blog and end up reading something from it, although I have no idea where they find the strength to read such long, unappealing text. And when they’ve read it, they convey their feelings to me, personally. And out of the blue, it makes me feel, I don’t know, complete. Like I’m doing what I was destined to. A feeling matching to, but not as great as Arthur pulling the Excalibur. Thank you, Sencyanide.

I’ve begun going out on walks in the morning. And I cannot tell you how absolutely fulfilling it makes me feel. Sometimes when I’m making rounds of the local park, I hit upon realisations that help me understand myself better, understand people better, that help me be a better person. And all of this, while taking a normal, boring walk. It’s completely simple, and yet, absolutely wonderful.

Sometimes when I’m driving back home from work, my shuffled music playlist of soft, slow songs plays ‘Night Swim’ by Josef Salvat. A song I first heard thanks to my ex-boyfriend. And as the song slowly massages and eases my brain, I remember the time I had the privilege to spend with that idiot. And I realise that you never really stop caring for some people, even long after they’re gone from your lives. Sometimes they linger in the smell of perfume, in an old t-shirt, in a song. Thank you, J.

That’s enough for today, my good people. I hope that wherever you are and whatever you’re doing, you stop to think about the things you’re grateful for, to notice the most redundant of things, continuing to move forward, wherever it takes you, and of course, looking at Selene whenever she’s kind enough to allow you a glance.