I remember, growing up, thinking at times "What if everyone else is a robot, and I'm the only real person?" Aside from showing my absolute nerdiness, I don't think questions like that are really very useful. It's impossible to disprove, like "What if this is all a dream?" or "What if I'm in the matrix?", but in the end, it's just silly. We know it's not true. But I think, more often than we realize, we feel that it's true, or something like it.
One of the greatest aspects of human intelligence, and a big field in AI research, is our ability to categorize. We take specifics in our surroundings, and apply them to a general category, matching patterns and making predictions. When you pick an apple off a tree and prepare to bite into it, you have a good idea what it will taste like. You've never tasted that specific apple, and know nothing about it, but you've categorized it. You have reason to believe it fits the "apple" category, and will have all the flavors that go with it. Sometimes that sort of reasoning leads you astray (there's a bad apple in every bunch, OH the puns burn), but we couldn't function without it.
We do the same thing with people. You can never be sure, whether you're just meeting someone or have known him your whole life, what his next action will be. But that doesn't mean everything has to be a complete surprise: people, like anything else, can fall into categories, and from them we can make educated guesses about their behavior. The more you know about someone, the deeper that category gets, but it's always going to be a little shallow.
So we have these categories: Republican, Democrat, Christian, Atheist, black, white, etc. We try to fit people into boxes of useable size, and in some sense feel like we've "figured them out." As an extreme, take political propaganda. Republicans as naive gun-toting hicks. Democrats as pansy snobbish idealists. Christians as willfully ignorant, out of touch with the world. Atheists as evil conspirators incapable of a selfless act.
Contrast that to what we see in ourselves. That inner light we have, consciousness, is an amazing thing. Within your memory is stored an innumerable amount of thoughts, perceptions, and emotions. You are constantly evaluating the world around you, weighing millions of hypotheticals, and making difficult decisions without batting an eye. You are (or at least, feel) completely free, to think and act however you wish. And you try (for the most part) to take the best actions possible. You see yourself as inconceivably complex, beyond any stereotype. Whether you'd admit it or not, there are times when you feel much more real than anyone else. It's only natural: you know yourself best, and can see your innermost thoughts, while in everyone else you just have rough actions to guide you.
But imagine a world where we saw everyone in the same light we see ourselves. If I could walk through a crowd of strangers, and really feel that all of them are experiencing thoughts, feelings, sensations, and memories, as deeply as I experience my own. That every action they take and belief they hold, has been thought through and carefully chosen. That they share the same light of consciousness that I do. It's an overwhelming thought, but a powerful one.
How could we begin to shrug off the enormity of suffering in the world? How could we see a person in need and, knowing that they feel pain as deeply as we do, not help? How could we buy the partisan crap from either side of any argument, telling us that all opponents are blind to obvious answers, are fueled by only selfish motives, or are simply "stupid"? Political parties, unified only in strawmen and cliched phrases, would crumble. Wars fought over abstract ideas like "country" or "race" or "religion" would be impossible: those convenient categories would be empty, and not worth the snuffing out of a single human life.
Of course, that will never happen. It's too easy to put a person's humanity in a shallow box, to manipulate or ignore as we see fit. And if we do manage to put everyone in simple categories, we can feel completely sovereign. The temptation is too strong. That it's even possible, in any degree, is a testament to the miracle of love.
I may never completely practice what I preach. But to the best of my ability, I'd like to try. And that means recognizing that everyone around me is of the same infinite worth, and warrants the same respect I'd give myself. It means forgetting the slogans and hateful bashing, and fighting to see the good in everyone, and the merit in their opinions. It's hard to do, especially in a world full of cynicism. But it's the truth.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Saturday, June 27, 2009
In the Face of Infinity
This afternoon I found a large spider in my pants. Tonight I found a black widow next to the toilet. Clearly, nature is out to ensure I can never have kids. I just wanted to get that off my chest.
I remember one night in particular, at Indian Hills summer camp, sitting in an amphitheater under the stars. The speaker told us something along these lines: "Compare yourself to the size of this amphitheater. Now compare that to the size of this camp. Compare that to the size of California. Compare that to the size of the US. Compare that to the size of the world. Compare that to the size of the galaxy..." and etc. He had a point (other than to depress us), I'm sure, but all I remember from that night is an overwhelming sense of smallness. In the face of infinity, I was absolutely nothing. Mathematically that's not an exaggeration: the ratio of any finite thing to infinity is zero.
That sort of sentiment isn't nearly as abstract or esoteric as it sounds coming from a math geek. We've all heard despairing remarks like "Why bother feeding children overseas, when the death toll is so high? It makes no difference, not even a dent, in the issue." That's numbness in the face of overwhelming figures, and it's hard to avoid.
It's not limited to pessimism either. Selfishness is another basic effect. You're waiting in a long line at an amusement park, and what do you think? "If only I could just cut in front, I'd save hours of time, and everyone else would only lose a few seconds. They wouldn't even notice." Or a typographical error adds an extra zero on your paycheck: "The company has so much money, it won't even feel the lack. But for me, this is huge."
The number can be anything; even, and often most dangerously, time. In the face of an 80-year-long life, my actions today seem absolutely trivial. In the face of eternity, I'm dumbstruck. I can't imagine simply not being (nor do I want to), but the prospect of eternity is so grandiose, it makes me dizzy -- should I say scared? -- just thinking about it. Some, taking it for granted, live however they want, knowing everything will be washed out completely by the infinite.
To get a visual of the point I'm making, take any bar graph (on infinite paper, of course!) Take the roughly infinite number of bars to be: children overseas, people in line, paychecks, days of your life, etc. Let the Y axis be: health, waiting time, money, goodness/badness, etc. Make it as steep, jagged, tumultuous as you want. Then start zooming out. The further away you get (the more of the X axis you "take into account"), the smoother it becomes. In the end, no matter how jagged, it will always look like a straight line. Everything is washed out. Even though locally (one bar compared to another) there's a tangible difference, universally (taking everything into account), there's not.
But we live in that local realm. Differences are felt, and things matter. How do we reconcile that with the "big picture"? Two different things come to mind.
The first is that large numbers are made up of individual parts, and in the real world those parts are always, always connected. And there's a sort of ripple effect in that. Even if helping one individual didn't, in itself, have any effect on the scheme of things, that individual will have an effect on others near it. And even if living, holy, today, won't even be seen from an infinite vantage point, it will be seen from tomorrow. As individuals influence individuals and tomorrows beget tomorrows, that singular act will be like a wave, rising and rising as it moves forward. The scheme of things, in the world, in lines at Six Flags, in businesses, or in life, will be shaped by trends, which every small part helps create. That idea is what Immanuel Kant had in mind with his "categorical imperative": you should act in a way that, if it were universal law (everyone/thing behaved that way), the universe would function well. Even from an ardent skeptic, that's a complicated way of affirming the same truth.
The second is that there is a beautiful duality, in us and in God, where meaning isn't only in the "scheme of things" but also in the tiniest of parts. We simultaneously can live in a world where we recognize our smallness, and can live in the moment, where emotion and beauty reign. More to the point, we were created with an infinite worth, whatever the paradox, with value to God. To continue the nerdy math analogy (please forgive me), the ratio between any finite number and infinity is zero. If we were nothing more than well-oiled physical machines, the product of chaos, that would be our scenario. But as infinite souls, the ratio is between infinity and infinity, which is undefined. I don't think there's any wacky new age meaning behind that metaphor, but the word is still a fitting one. Undefined. There's something going on, in us and our interaction with the world, that can't be measured objectively, and isn't prey to nihilism or apathy. Something tantalizing, which logic can't quite capture.
Sleep time. Post your thoughts.
I remember one night in particular, at Indian Hills summer camp, sitting in an amphitheater under the stars. The speaker told us something along these lines: "Compare yourself to the size of this amphitheater. Now compare that to the size of this camp. Compare that to the size of California. Compare that to the size of the US. Compare that to the size of the world. Compare that to the size of the galaxy..." and etc. He had a point (other than to depress us), I'm sure, but all I remember from that night is an overwhelming sense of smallness. In the face of infinity, I was absolutely nothing. Mathematically that's not an exaggeration: the ratio of any finite thing to infinity is zero.
That sort of sentiment isn't nearly as abstract or esoteric as it sounds coming from a math geek. We've all heard despairing remarks like "Why bother feeding children overseas, when the death toll is so high? It makes no difference, not even a dent, in the issue." That's numbness in the face of overwhelming figures, and it's hard to avoid.
It's not limited to pessimism either. Selfishness is another basic effect. You're waiting in a long line at an amusement park, and what do you think? "If only I could just cut in front, I'd save hours of time, and everyone else would only lose a few seconds. They wouldn't even notice." Or a typographical error adds an extra zero on your paycheck: "The company has so much money, it won't even feel the lack. But for me, this is huge."
The number can be anything; even, and often most dangerously, time. In the face of an 80-year-long life, my actions today seem absolutely trivial. In the face of eternity, I'm dumbstruck. I can't imagine simply not being (nor do I want to), but the prospect of eternity is so grandiose, it makes me dizzy -- should I say scared? -- just thinking about it. Some, taking it for granted, live however they want, knowing everything will be washed out completely by the infinite.
To get a visual of the point I'm making, take any bar graph (on infinite paper, of course!) Take the roughly infinite number of bars to be: children overseas, people in line, paychecks, days of your life, etc. Let the Y axis be: health, waiting time, money, goodness/badness, etc. Make it as steep, jagged, tumultuous as you want. Then start zooming out. The further away you get (the more of the X axis you "take into account"), the smoother it becomes. In the end, no matter how jagged, it will always look like a straight line. Everything is washed out. Even though locally (one bar compared to another) there's a tangible difference, universally (taking everything into account), there's not.
But we live in that local realm. Differences are felt, and things matter. How do we reconcile that with the "big picture"? Two different things come to mind.
The first is that large numbers are made up of individual parts, and in the real world those parts are always, always connected. And there's a sort of ripple effect in that. Even if helping one individual didn't, in itself, have any effect on the scheme of things, that individual will have an effect on others near it. And even if living, holy, today, won't even be seen from an infinite vantage point, it will be seen from tomorrow. As individuals influence individuals and tomorrows beget tomorrows, that singular act will be like a wave, rising and rising as it moves forward. The scheme of things, in the world, in lines at Six Flags, in businesses, or in life, will be shaped by trends, which every small part helps create. That idea is what Immanuel Kant had in mind with his "categorical imperative": you should act in a way that, if it were universal law (everyone/thing behaved that way), the universe would function well. Even from an ardent skeptic, that's a complicated way of affirming the same truth.
The second is that there is a beautiful duality, in us and in God, where meaning isn't only in the "scheme of things" but also in the tiniest of parts. We simultaneously can live in a world where we recognize our smallness, and can live in the moment, where emotion and beauty reign. More to the point, we were created with an infinite worth, whatever the paradox, with value to God. To continue the nerdy math analogy (please forgive me), the ratio between any finite number and infinity is zero. If we were nothing more than well-oiled physical machines, the product of chaos, that would be our scenario. But as infinite souls, the ratio is between infinity and infinity, which is undefined. I don't think there's any wacky new age meaning behind that metaphor, but the word is still a fitting one. Undefined. There's something going on, in us and our interaction with the world, that can't be measured objectively, and isn't prey to nihilism or apathy. Something tantalizing, which logic can't quite capture.
Sleep time. Post your thoughts.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Necessary Deception?
No joke, I was seriously going to start this blog with "The older I get..." Yes, let me pass along the wisdom from the ripe-old age of 20, as I lean back in my rocking chair, smoke a pipe, and reflect. I must have a crazy pretentious blogger side of me, fighting to come out. Maybe starting this blog was a mistake...Anyway...
I was thinking today, and...
Great, now I'm pulling the "deep thinker" card. I wasn't spending the day thinking, today I worked, played soccer, ate dinner, went to a friend's house, watched Conan, and went home. I give up. There's really no easy segway here, so I'll just skip the intro altogether.
In most any subject, there's one thing you can be sure of. You'll start taking a basic course on it, then at some point, the professor will say "Well...that's not entirely true." In physics, you start with Newton's laws of motion, and the world is made up of interacting objects in static space. Then one day you're introduced to relativity or quantum mechanics, and suddenly you find that every (and I mean every) equation or concept you learned wasn't quite true. They were approximations, and because they are useful and easier to digest than the harder stuff, you're taught them as fact. In Math you're taught simple Euclidean geometry; till you learn about non-Euclidean geometry, and suddenly everything you were told is impossible, isn't. In Geography you learn about countries with clear-cut borders and well-established capitals; till you delve in deeper, and get tangled in the mess of international affairs, with hazy boundaries and ever shifting allegiances. In English you start out learning that poems are rhyming and metered, as opposed to the plain text of prose; then you start reading poems that break form, don't rhyme, and sometimes (see: e.e. cummings) can't even be pronounced.
There's nothing surprising about any of that. Just the simple fact that learning takes time, and no one is capable of understanding a difficult subject without building up to it. Where would we be if we learned E=mc^2 before F=ma? Or learned about hyperspheres and Kaluza-Klein manifolds without knowing about straight lines and circles? Or learned about the Israeli-Palestinian struggle for the West Bank without having already learned, on a map, where the Middle Eastern countries were? Or having the first "poem" you're ever introduced to be this:
Obviously, you'd go insane. There's just too much there, and it's too hard to even begin to appreciate complex things before you start with your simpler estimations. (I'm still not sure I appreciate that one...though I'm a big fan of cummings' stuff, at least when it's readable). Simplifications help, and we all need them, at least at first. And it's hard to question the ethics of it; we all know, going in, that what we're learning isn't the whole story.
But there's one field where that simplification can be dangerous -- life. Just like any other subject, life is too difficult for a child to grasp. The complexities and subtleties of life, like the "grasshopper" poem, are overbearing. But you can't put life on hold while you sit and ponder it. We're rational agents, and we need to make decisions immediately, even as kids. So parents and teachers do the only thing they can. They simplify. Moral greys become black and white, difficult theology is glossed over in favor of Bible stories, and whatever political or doctrinal affiliation the parent is a part of, is made to seem obvious and unparalleled.
I've already written about some of those simplifications. In politics it's particularly easy to see what I mean: Republicans villify Democrats as overly tolerant or downright immoral, Democrats villify Republicans as greedy or ignorant. On the other hand, we see our own side as reasonable, obvious, commonsense, or moral. It's how I grew up (no fault of my parents), even if I didn't realize it, and I'll bet it's how you grew up too. Were we really Republicans or Democrats when we were 13? It's easy to laugh now at the idea, but at the time we were pretty sure.
My question is, to what extent is this sort of sheltering necessary? And to what extent is it ethical? Some parents try to avoid "indoctrination" and end up raising confused, ruined kids with no guidance, shown too much of the world too early. Others justify everything with the ends (having a happy kid who shares your values) and shelter to the point of almost creepy deception. There has to be some sort of middle ground, but I don't see what it is. When the truth itself is difficult or offensive, but glossing it over is deceptive, how can you win?
Those aren't rhetorical. I really have no idea. I'm just glad I'm not a parent yet...as far as I know, anyway.
I was thinking today, and...
Great, now I'm pulling the "deep thinker" card. I wasn't spending the day thinking, today I worked, played soccer, ate dinner, went to a friend's house, watched Conan, and went home. I give up. There's really no easy segway here, so I'll just skip the intro altogether.
In most any subject, there's one thing you can be sure of. You'll start taking a basic course on it, then at some point, the professor will say "Well...that's not entirely true." In physics, you start with Newton's laws of motion, and the world is made up of interacting objects in static space. Then one day you're introduced to relativity or quantum mechanics, and suddenly you find that every (and I mean every) equation or concept you learned wasn't quite true. They were approximations, and because they are useful and easier to digest than the harder stuff, you're taught them as fact. In Math you're taught simple Euclidean geometry; till you learn about non-Euclidean geometry, and suddenly everything you were told is impossible, isn't. In Geography you learn about countries with clear-cut borders and well-established capitals; till you delve in deeper, and get tangled in the mess of international affairs, with hazy boundaries and ever shifting allegiances. In English you start out learning that poems are rhyming and metered, as opposed to the plain text of prose; then you start reading poems that break form, don't rhyme, and sometimes (see: e.e. cummings) can't even be pronounced.
There's nothing surprising about any of that. Just the simple fact that learning takes time, and no one is capable of understanding a difficult subject without building up to it. Where would we be if we learned E=mc^2 before F=ma? Or learned about hyperspheres and Kaluza-Klein manifolds without knowing about straight lines and circles? Or learned about the Israeli-Palestinian struggle for the West Bank without having already learned, on a map, where the Middle Eastern countries were? Or having the first "poem" you're ever introduced to be this:
r-p-o-p-h-e-s-s-a-g-r(r-p-o-p-h-e-s-s-a-g-r, by e.e. cummings)
who
a)s w(e loo)k
upnowgath
PPEGORHRASS
eringint(o-
aThe):l
eA
!p:
S a
(r
rIvInG .gRrEaPsPhOs)
to
rea(be)rran(com)gi(e)ngly
,grasshopper;
Obviously, you'd go insane. There's just too much there, and it's too hard to even begin to appreciate complex things before you start with your simpler estimations. (I'm still not sure I appreciate that one...though I'm a big fan of cummings' stuff, at least when it's readable). Simplifications help, and we all need them, at least at first. And it's hard to question the ethics of it; we all know, going in, that what we're learning isn't the whole story.
But there's one field where that simplification can be dangerous -- life. Just like any other subject, life is too difficult for a child to grasp. The complexities and subtleties of life, like the "grasshopper" poem, are overbearing. But you can't put life on hold while you sit and ponder it. We're rational agents, and we need to make decisions immediately, even as kids. So parents and teachers do the only thing they can. They simplify. Moral greys become black and white, difficult theology is glossed over in favor of Bible stories, and whatever political or doctrinal affiliation the parent is a part of, is made to seem obvious and unparalleled.
I've already written about some of those simplifications. In politics it's particularly easy to see what I mean: Republicans villify Democrats as overly tolerant or downright immoral, Democrats villify Republicans as greedy or ignorant. On the other hand, we see our own side as reasonable, obvious, commonsense, or moral. It's how I grew up (no fault of my parents), even if I didn't realize it, and I'll bet it's how you grew up too. Were we really Republicans or Democrats when we were 13? It's easy to laugh now at the idea, but at the time we were pretty sure.
My question is, to what extent is this sort of sheltering necessary? And to what extent is it ethical? Some parents try to avoid "indoctrination" and end up raising confused, ruined kids with no guidance, shown too much of the world too early. Others justify everything with the ends (having a happy kid who shares your values) and shelter to the point of almost creepy deception. There has to be some sort of middle ground, but I don't see what it is. When the truth itself is difficult or offensive, but glossing it over is deceptive, how can you win?
Those aren't rhetorical. I really have no idea. I'm just glad I'm not a parent yet...as far as I know, anyway.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Update
Sorry for barraging my reader(s?) with such long posts. I have a tendency to write a lot when I get to it. But as a reward, tonight's blog will be pretty short. Maybe I'll write a longer one tomorrow.
I just wanted to update a little bit. Earlier I wrote a post about recently being diagnosed with / treated for a panic disorder. I really hate calling it that since it conjures up images of geeky kids hyperventilating when the cute girl walks by them. I'll try to come up with a new name: really weird sensations similar to a heart attack, happening at random times, usually when trying to sleep, disorder.
Anyway, I had written about being in a haze from the medication I was taking, and wanting to quit. After some really lousy days and sleepless nights, I went to the doctor and got prescribed something much weaker (to the point where it is virtually nothing). Since then the haze has been lifted, and I'm experiencing things much more fully. Unfortunately, with that has also come withdrawal symptoms like massive headaches, nausea, and just a general sense of unease. Some days have been pure hell, and others have been great. Regardless, I'm happy to be myself again, even if that self isn't in premium condition. I'd rather feel everything, pain and all, than be drugged numb. Please keep me in your thoughts and/or prayers, since it's so unfathomably draining to feel like you're at war with yourself. I worry sometimes that things won't improve, and all my potential as a straight-A-student will crumble, because of some stupid physical ailment. Other times, I'm just angry: at God, at myself, at life in general, for throwing this at me. Call me emo, but I really have rolled up the windows in my car and yelled at the top of my lungs. Last night, for instance.
As a side note, it's really hard for me to write about something like this. It's embarrassing to show signs of weakness, especially when it's something that can so easily be perceived as pathetic or crazy. I've been considering deleting this (and the other post), but for the sake of that transparency I long for, I'll keep it. Honesty is cathartic.
Since it's sort of relevant, I think I'll throw in a short story which was previously posted on Facebook. It's a true account of what it felt like when the attacks first started, with my usual nerdy-analogy twist.
---
Feedback
The room is dark. You are lying in bed, your eyes closed, your face pressed firmly against a black pillow. You are attempting to shut off your wandering mind. You are lost, speeding in motionless transit.
You are sitting in a red cushioned chair and it is twelve hours ago. You are exploring a replica, its blueprint a motion-blurred snapshot of an infinite sea of photons. You swim through the intricate model, bending and rearranging pieces into useful, meaningful shape. You are watching the professor, the pale blue of his slightly wrinkled shirt, tucked into ironed black slacks at a careless angle. In his right hand is a piece of chalk, pressed against a green chalkboard. As it glides across the dusty backdrop, there is a subtle motion in the air surrounding it. The tiny wave propagates through the air, colliding with a circle of black foam clipped to the collar. The motion of the foam begets a current. The current moves through a coil of wire, across the stage, into the wall, and up, up to the speaker above. The speaker pulsates, and like a cannon, fires the rhythm through the sea, into your ears. You recall the dull force with which it collided; the tap of chalk against board, the crisp scratch of gliding motion, the squeak of friction, the nearly silent echo. It bounces off of you, swims down the steps of the lecture hall, across the stage, up the ironed black slacks and slightly wrinkled pale blue shirt, to the circle of black foam clipped to the collar. The machine, having heard its own voice, is trapped in a cycle. The gentle vibration becomes a quiet low whir, becomes a loud boom, becomes a high pitched shriek, becomes a deafening screech in an endlessly rising crescendo, accelerating manically to infinity.
Your eyes open. You are aware of your breathing. It’s too shallow, too quick, irregular. Why? You try to pace it; deeper, slower, longer. You notice your heart. It is beating quickly, loudly. Had it always pulsed so loudly? How had you never felt it before? Uncertainty incites fear, and you take another breath. Too deep, too much; you are lightheaded and your heart is accelerating. You exhale slowly, calmly, but continue a moment too long, and end in a wheeze. You gasp; you are drowning; your room is filling with water and with every exhalation you are sinking. And your heart – no, your entire body – throbbing. You try to contain yourself. Nothing is happening. This is nothing. It is 2:38 in the morning, and you are lying in bed, and this is nothing. You tell yourself to calm down. Focus. Breathe. Remember to breathe. You cannot catch your breathing; it is teetering between shallow and deep, quick and slow. You are trying to balance a needle on its point, and every kick of your heart tips it further from equilibrium. Gasp, kick, gasp, kick. Your heart is a heavy ball, each bouncing thud louder and quicker than the one preceding it. Gravity is pulling it down and with each gasp you fight it, but the thud thud thud thud thudding heart shows no sign of slowing. Fear creates adrenaline, adrenaline quickens heartbeat, heartbeat induces hyperventilation, hyperventilation amplifies fear. Don’t be afraid. This is nothing. Don’t panic. Panicking is acceleration and you are overthinking. Stop thinking. Thinking is panicking and panicking is acceleration and you are trying to slow down. Try to stop thinking. But trying is thinking, and thinking is panicking and panicking is acceleration and you are moving much too fast. Try to stop trying. But trying is trying and trying is thinking, and thinking is panicking and panicking is acceleration and how much speed can an immobile body take? Try to stop trying to stop trying. But trying is trying and trying is trying and trying is thinking, and thinking is panicking and panicking is acceleration and you are buried under the weight of your thoughts and nearing critical mass. Try to stop trying to stop trying to stop tryingtostoptryingtostoptryingtostoptryingtostop—
The speaker cannot take the noise; it gives out, halts. The message is silenced; you and the room are shaken for only a brief moment, and the world again is still. The gaping infinite which threatened to engulf you has been subdued by the feeble machinery that encased it, leaving only a menacing growl. The professor resumes his writing. He is drawing a circuit; a battery, wires, resistors. Physics tells us, he explains, that if one end of the battery is fed into the other, an infinitely growing current will arise. Of course, batteries drain, wires break; all you will see is a spark, a momentary glimpse of the power of the ideal.
—tryingtostoptryingtostoptryingtostop trying to stop trying to. Stop. Relief. You are fine. Your heartbeat is steady, your breathing effortless. You look at the clock. 2:38. You are in the same room, same bed, your face pressed firmly against the same black pillow. Something has happened, but nothing has changed. What was it? Just a fluke, you suppose, the mind playing a dirty trick on the senses. Nothing to lose sleep over. You’ll tell someone about it in the morning. Maybe write a story about it. You smile uneasily to yourself and drift back to sleep, your feeble machinery subduing the growl of an ideal soul which has seen its reflection.
I just wanted to update a little bit. Earlier I wrote a post about recently being diagnosed with / treated for a panic disorder. I really hate calling it that since it conjures up images of geeky kids hyperventilating when the cute girl walks by them. I'll try to come up with a new name: really weird sensations similar to a heart attack, happening at random times, usually when trying to sleep, disorder.
Anyway, I had written about being in a haze from the medication I was taking, and wanting to quit. After some really lousy days and sleepless nights, I went to the doctor and got prescribed something much weaker (to the point where it is virtually nothing). Since then the haze has been lifted, and I'm experiencing things much more fully. Unfortunately, with that has also come withdrawal symptoms like massive headaches, nausea, and just a general sense of unease. Some days have been pure hell, and others have been great. Regardless, I'm happy to be myself again, even if that self isn't in premium condition. I'd rather feel everything, pain and all, than be drugged numb. Please keep me in your thoughts and/or prayers, since it's so unfathomably draining to feel like you're at war with yourself. I worry sometimes that things won't improve, and all my potential as a straight-A-student will crumble, because of some stupid physical ailment. Other times, I'm just angry: at God, at myself, at life in general, for throwing this at me. Call me emo, but I really have rolled up the windows in my car and yelled at the top of my lungs. Last night, for instance.
As a side note, it's really hard for me to write about something like this. It's embarrassing to show signs of weakness, especially when it's something that can so easily be perceived as pathetic or crazy. I've been considering deleting this (and the other post), but for the sake of that transparency I long for, I'll keep it. Honesty is cathartic.
Since it's sort of relevant, I think I'll throw in a short story which was previously posted on Facebook. It's a true account of what it felt like when the attacks first started, with my usual nerdy-analogy twist.
---
Feedback
The room is dark. You are lying in bed, your eyes closed, your face pressed firmly against a black pillow. You are attempting to shut off your wandering mind. You are lost, speeding in motionless transit.
You are sitting in a red cushioned chair and it is twelve hours ago. You are exploring a replica, its blueprint a motion-blurred snapshot of an infinite sea of photons. You swim through the intricate model, bending and rearranging pieces into useful, meaningful shape. You are watching the professor, the pale blue of his slightly wrinkled shirt, tucked into ironed black slacks at a careless angle. In his right hand is a piece of chalk, pressed against a green chalkboard. As it glides across the dusty backdrop, there is a subtle motion in the air surrounding it. The tiny wave propagates through the air, colliding with a circle of black foam clipped to the collar. The motion of the foam begets a current. The current moves through a coil of wire, across the stage, into the wall, and up, up to the speaker above. The speaker pulsates, and like a cannon, fires the rhythm through the sea, into your ears. You recall the dull force with which it collided; the tap of chalk against board, the crisp scratch of gliding motion, the squeak of friction, the nearly silent echo. It bounces off of you, swims down the steps of the lecture hall, across the stage, up the ironed black slacks and slightly wrinkled pale blue shirt, to the circle of black foam clipped to the collar. The machine, having heard its own voice, is trapped in a cycle. The gentle vibration becomes a quiet low whir, becomes a loud boom, becomes a high pitched shriek, becomes a deafening screech in an endlessly rising crescendo, accelerating manically to infinity.
Your eyes open. You are aware of your breathing. It’s too shallow, too quick, irregular. Why? You try to pace it; deeper, slower, longer. You notice your heart. It is beating quickly, loudly. Had it always pulsed so loudly? How had you never felt it before? Uncertainty incites fear, and you take another breath. Too deep, too much; you are lightheaded and your heart is accelerating. You exhale slowly, calmly, but continue a moment too long, and end in a wheeze. You gasp; you are drowning; your room is filling with water and with every exhalation you are sinking. And your heart – no, your entire body – throbbing. You try to contain yourself. Nothing is happening. This is nothing. It is 2:38 in the morning, and you are lying in bed, and this is nothing. You tell yourself to calm down. Focus. Breathe. Remember to breathe. You cannot catch your breathing; it is teetering between shallow and deep, quick and slow. You are trying to balance a needle on its point, and every kick of your heart tips it further from equilibrium. Gasp, kick, gasp, kick. Your heart is a heavy ball, each bouncing thud louder and quicker than the one preceding it. Gravity is pulling it down and with each gasp you fight it, but the thud thud thud thud thudding heart shows no sign of slowing. Fear creates adrenaline, adrenaline quickens heartbeat, heartbeat induces hyperventilation, hyperventilation amplifies fear. Don’t be afraid. This is nothing. Don’t panic. Panicking is acceleration and you are overthinking. Stop thinking. Thinking is panicking and panicking is acceleration and you are trying to slow down. Try to stop thinking. But trying is thinking, and thinking is panicking and panicking is acceleration and you are moving much too fast. Try to stop trying. But trying is trying and trying is thinking, and thinking is panicking and panicking is acceleration and how much speed can an immobile body take? Try to stop trying to stop trying. But trying is trying and trying is trying and trying is thinking, and thinking is panicking and panicking is acceleration and you are buried under the weight of your thoughts and nearing critical mass. Try to stop trying to stop trying to stop tryingtostoptryingtostoptr
The speaker cannot take the noise; it gives out, halts. The message is silenced; you and the room are shaken for only a brief moment, and the world again is still. The gaping infinite which threatened to engulf you has been subdued by the feeble machinery that encased it, leaving only a menacing growl. The professor resumes his writing. He is drawing a circuit; a battery, wires, resistors. Physics tells us, he explains, that if one end of the battery is fed into the other, an infinitely growing current will arise. Of course, batteries drain, wires break; all you will see is a spark, a momentary glimpse of the power of the ideal.
—tryingtostoptryingtostopt
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Poem and a Story
This is a poem I recently rediscovered, which I like quite a bit.
For context, there's an apocryphal chapter of Daniel which tells the story of Susanna. According to the story, Susanna was a Hebrew woman who was spied on while bathing by two elders. The priests tried to force her to sleep with them, and when she refused they accused her of adultery and she was sentenced to death. Right before she's killed, Daniel comes to her aid (12 Angry Men?) and has them cross-examined, proving them fraud. The elders are put to death.
For more context, Peter Quince is a character in Midsummer Night's Dream who is trying to direct a play. He's a storyteller, not very good, but passionate. In the poem he's sitting at a Clavier (like a piano). The poem is by Wallace Stevens.
Peter Quince at the Clavier
There's not really a point of posting that other than to share it, but I guess I'll try to make one. "Beauty is momentary in the mind[...] but in the flesh, it is immortal." What does that mean? The way I take it, anyway, is that thought alone can't produce beauty: cold logic can examine the world and try to understand it, and can to a "momentary" degree, but only "in the flesh" is it really understood. It's felt, not thought through; once you experience it, it stays with you, defying reason.
This past weekend when I was in New Jersey, I spent a little while reading my late uncle John's journals / sketchbooks, and looking at his paintings. He was a really talented guy, and went to art school. Some of the things he drew and painted are incredible. Then paranoid schizophrenia came on. I don't know if it can be acquired, but it feels like he did it to himself. Reading through the journals, you can sort of follow his scary sense of logic (especially if you're familiar with math or physics). He wrote about special relativity, math, and philosophy, and from them started "deriving" this proof that God doesn't exist, and everything is nothing. It goes on for at least 50 journals worth, and reading through them, you get a glimpse of his pain. Sometimes the proofs would break off, and he'd draw a tormented looking picture of himself, write hieroglyphics, or write a poem. Like this:
"My subscription is up
I have succeeded no less
in destroying in myself all that I respect.
I have disgraced my self
my family and my God.
I have no right to renew.
Please try to understand"
I took a few of the journals home and have been reading through them, and it's very sad but very interesting, to see what can happen when you get so wrapped up in thinking, you destroy yourself. And he did destroy himself, like his poem said. He drank himself to death a few years after I was born.
The mind is a powerful tool, but it's a very scary one. It leads people to great discoveries, but it can also lead to a dangerous feedback loop, where knowledge propels more knowledge, and soon in a high-pitched shriek, it spins out of control. You prove that you are meaningless, and think yourself out of existence. He knew he was going crazy, and even writes it a lot. But he just couldn't step out of his head. Beauty is momentary in the mind.
But in the flesh, it is immortal. My grandparents basement are filled with his artwork (a few museums have some too). His times of humanity, and drawing and painting for the sake of beauty and not an insane quest for truth, shine through. Even though he's dead, the beauty plays on the clear viol of my memory.
I don't really know if anyone reads this blog. So you should comment if you do. It'll be fun.
For context, there's an apocryphal chapter of Daniel which tells the story of Susanna. According to the story, Susanna was a Hebrew woman who was spied on while bathing by two elders. The priests tried to force her to sleep with them, and when she refused they accused her of adultery and she was sentenced to death. Right before she's killed, Daniel comes to her aid (12 Angry Men?) and has them cross-examined, proving them fraud. The elders are put to death.
For more context, Peter Quince is a character in Midsummer Night's Dream who is trying to direct a play. He's a storyteller, not very good, but passionate. In the poem he's sitting at a Clavier (like a piano). The poem is by Wallace Stevens.
Peter Quince at the Clavier
I
Just as my fingers on these keys
Make music, so the self-same sounds
On my spirit make a music, too.
Music is feeling, then, not sound;
And thus it is that what I feel,
Here in this room, desiring you,
Thinking of your blue-shadowed silk,
Is music. It is like the strain
Waked in the elders by Susanna;
Of a green evening, clear and warm,
She bathed in her still garden, while
The red-eyed elders, watching, felt
The basses of their beings throb
In witching chords, and their thin blood
Pulse pizzicati of Hosanna.
II
In the green water, clear and warm,
Susanna lay.
She searched
The touch of springs,
And found
Concealed imaginings.
She sighed,
For so much melody.
Upon the bank, she stood
In the cool
Of spent emotions.
She felt, among the leaves,
The dew
Of old devotions.
She walked upon the grass,
Still quavering.
The winds were like her maids,
On timid feet,
Fetching her woven scarves,
Yet wavering.
A breath upon her hand
Muted the night.
She turned --
A cymbal crashed,
Amid roaring horns.
III
Soon, with a noise like tambourines,
Came her attendant Byzantines.
They wondered why Susanna cried
Against the elders by her side;
And as they whispered, the refrain
Was like a willow swept by rain.
Anon, their lamps' uplifted flame
Revealed Susanna and her shame.
And then, the simpering Byzantines
Fled, with a noise like tambourines.
IV
Beauty is momentary in the mind --
The fitful tracing of a portal;
But in the flesh it is immortal.
The body dies; the body's beauty lives.
So evenings die, in their green going,
A wave, interminably flowing.
So gardens die, their meek breath scenting
The cowl of winter, done repenting.
So maidens die, to the auroral
Celebration of a maiden's choral.
Susanna's music touched the bawdy strings
Of those white elders; but, escaping,
Left only Death's ironic scraping.
Now, in its immortality, it plays
On the clear viol of her memory,
And makes a constant sacrament of praise.
There's not really a point of posting that other than to share it, but I guess I'll try to make one. "Beauty is momentary in the mind[...] but in the flesh, it is immortal." What does that mean? The way I take it, anyway, is that thought alone can't produce beauty: cold logic can examine the world and try to understand it, and can to a "momentary" degree, but only "in the flesh" is it really understood. It's felt, not thought through; once you experience it, it stays with you, defying reason.
This past weekend when I was in New Jersey, I spent a little while reading my late uncle John's journals / sketchbooks, and looking at his paintings. He was a really talented guy, and went to art school. Some of the things he drew and painted are incredible. Then paranoid schizophrenia came on. I don't know if it can be acquired, but it feels like he did it to himself. Reading through the journals, you can sort of follow his scary sense of logic (especially if you're familiar with math or physics). He wrote about special relativity, math, and philosophy, and from them started "deriving" this proof that God doesn't exist, and everything is nothing. It goes on for at least 50 journals worth, and reading through them, you get a glimpse of his pain. Sometimes the proofs would break off, and he'd draw a tormented looking picture of himself, write hieroglyphics, or write a poem. Like this:
"My subscription is up
I have succeeded no less
in destroying in myself all that I respect.
I have disgraced my self
my family and my God.
I have no right to renew.
Please try to understand"
I took a few of the journals home and have been reading through them, and it's very sad but very interesting, to see what can happen when you get so wrapped up in thinking, you destroy yourself. And he did destroy himself, like his poem said. He drank himself to death a few years after I was born.
The mind is a powerful tool, but it's a very scary one. It leads people to great discoveries, but it can also lead to a dangerous feedback loop, where knowledge propels more knowledge, and soon in a high-pitched shriek, it spins out of control. You prove that you are meaningless, and think yourself out of existence. He knew he was going crazy, and even writes it a lot. But he just couldn't step out of his head. Beauty is momentary in the mind.
But in the flesh, it is immortal. My grandparents basement are filled with his artwork (a few museums have some too). His times of humanity, and drawing and painting for the sake of beauty and not an insane quest for truth, shine through. Even though he's dead, the beauty plays on the clear viol of my memory.
I don't really know if anyone reads this blog. So you should comment if you do. It'll be fun.
Friday, June 12, 2009
God and Occam's Razor
Subtitle: Rambling thoughts on a plane about why I believe God is a defensible hypothesis, even while I respect and understand the atheist worldview.
This is pretty long. Sorry. I guess I bit off more than I could chew. Plus, this plane ride is insanely boring, and writing is a good distraction. Comments, of course, are welcome.
In The God Delusion, Richard Dawkins has a chapter titled “Why There Is Almost Certainly No God.” The previous chapters had been spent (rightfully) shooting down the prototypical arguments for God’s existence: Aquinas’ Ontological Argument (a silly word game), Pascal’s Wager (the pros of belief outweigh the cons), Miraculous Revelations (“I saw the Pope in my piece of toast!”), etc. This chapter, however, is the only one which goes on the offensive, against the God Hypothesis. His argument is as follows: the existence of God is often argued by appealing to the complexity of the universe, the random formation of which is famously likened to a whirlwind creating a Boeing 747 in a junkyard. But throwing God into the mix doesn’t help things; to create the universe, God would need to be more complex, and hence they are replacing an unexplainable Boeing 747 with a similarly unexplainable “Ultimate Boeing 747.”
The analogy is, of course, only half serious. Dawkins knows that no religious person is trying to give an explanation for God as a naturally created being. His point is a much simpler one; the same as Russel’s Teapot, the Invisible Pink Unicorn, the Flying Spaghetti Monster, etc. Occam’s razor, the rule of theory preference which says the simplest theory which satisfactorily explains the evidence should be preferred. By fabricating the idea of an unseen “God” which governs the forces of nature, theists are adding an extra assumption which does not, by Dawkins’ standards, have any fundamentally predictive power. It’s a powerful criticism of all religion, and not one that should be easily dismissed.
It’s tempting to blow it off with “Who cares what Occam thought?” or, more seriously, “Even if it isn’t logically preferable, I can still believe it’s true.” But consider a world where this type of reasoning was practiced. Every natural phenomenon could have a scientific explanation to look for, but it would be just as easy (easier) to say “Zeus wanted it that way, and Zeus always gets what he wants” and leave it at that. There would be no scientific progress, nothing propelling us to ask “why?”
Things seem to get worse for religion when you look at the history of science. A few thousand years ago, most everything was explained in simple, ad hoc ways . Things fell to the earth because matter was evil, and the earth was more evil (Aristotle). Natural phenomena were caused by warring gods and goddesses. The earth was the center of the universe, and heaven surrounded it, past the planets and stars. Species were varied the way they were because they were specially, individually created that way ten thousand years ago. But slowly, natural explanations have been put forth – Newton’s theory of gravity, the interaction of charged particles, Einstein’s relativistic universe, Darwin’s Natural Selection. You’ll probably disagree that some (particularly, the last one) are really sufficient, but in the very least they show a clear tendency towards unification. Things previously thought to be unexplainable acts of gods are not always immune to natural explanation, and as our gaps in knowledge vanish, it stands to reason by induction that the gods of those gaps will too.
So how can my belief be reconciled with a deep appreciation for the natural sciences? Is God really just an unnecessary hypothesis, explaining the existence of one Boeing 747 by inventing a bigger one? I don’t think so. My reason is that there are at least three things, as far as I can tell, which stand in the way of a purely naturalistic worldview: the existence of the universe, the existence of consciousness, and the perception of beauty. These are, in my mind, unexplainable in principle, and are indicative of an insufficiency in science.
Scientists have managed to trace the universe back to a single event, The Big Bang. At this point in time, the universe was compacted in a very small space; if you believe String Theory, it was on the order of a single string (about ten to the negative thirty meters, if memory serves…I’m on an airplane, I don’t have internet). But to go from that singularity, to absolutely nothing, is a gap that we have no tools, physical or logical, to bridge. Nothingness cannot cause anything, by any stretch of scientific reasoning. If nothingness were given the power to “act”, it would be a purely ad hoc theory made to accommodate the Big Bang; we have no way of measuring, or verifying, anything on such an abstract level. Some theorize an overarching law, much like Natural Selection, which would cause says something along the lines of “The Universe Tends to Be”. But eternal laws in a vacuum are very much a philosophic idea, and really don’t seem too much unlike an eternal God. At the very least, they are both in the realm of metaphysics.
A naturalistic explanation of consciousness is something that, even though I do not believe in, intrigues me to no end. One of my current favorite authors, Douglas Hofstadter (Godel, Escher, Bach; I Am A Strange Loop) deals extensively with the subject. His claim is a reductionist one: in the end, consciousness is a purely physical phenomenon, and the illusions of free will and selfhood arise as epiphenomena of such complexity, but do not really exist. It’s not really a very startling idea; anyone fully committed to natural explanation must believe something similar. It’s very interesting, and makes for very beautiful analogies, but to me it is simply not convincing. Hofstadter adamantly believes it, and even in the face of the death of his wife, he determinedly argues that we are solely physical, solely deterministic. I applaud him for being so committed to his ideals, but it rings hollow to me. The inner “light” of consciousness we all feel eludes explanation, and, in my mind, it must always. Even if the brain is fully understood one day from a physical standpoint, that inner light will be no less mysterious.
Finally, I’ve said before that beauty seems to arise from complexity, and in a deep sense, it is truer than the mechanisms which underlie it. I don’t see that as an illusion, but rather indicative of a higher meaning than the physical universe. I’m not arguing, as some do, that the complexity itself is evidence (the Boeing 747 argument); it’s what the complexity seamlessly blurs into, the abstraction over and above the chaos. It’s easy to call it an illusion, but, like consciousness, we each experience it. If Hume and Kant are to be believed, our observations are of the utmost importance. To ignore such a deeply felt observation is to go against the spirit of inquiry, and natural law simply does not explain it.
Those were very brief, and I’m sure more posts in the future will ramble about them. But this post is already getting bloated enough. It might sound like I’m playing the same God-of-the-Gaps game I accused others of, but I’m really not. These “gaps”, and others like them, are simply not in the same realm as the natural sciences. They are phenomena which need explanations beyond natural law, and I say that knowing full well that natural law is always expanding. If the God Hypothesis can explain these things which a naturalistic framework cannot, then to append it to our natural explanations is not a violation of Occam’s Razor, but a unification. One hypothesis doesn’t, and shouldn’t, preclude the other.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Equilibrium
Last November, I was trying to fall asleep and realized I was incredibly aware of my breathing. It wasn't too deep, it wasn't too shallow, it was just...wrong. Since 1) I used to play trumpet, and 2) I have asthma, I'm used to pacing my breathing. But this time, I just couldn't get my mind off of it. I woke up the next day and was still always consciously regulating it, and spent the next week (including a night at the airport and flight home for Thanksgiving...not fun) feeling like I had to always control my breathing. Eventually I managed to distract myself, and it went away.
This February I was studying for a midterm at a coffee shop, and the left side of my body felt numb. I figured I was just tired, and went to bed. The next morning, in the middle of my midterm, it happened again. I called the University Health Services, and the nurse on the phone freaked out and made me go to urgent care (missing another midterm). She thought I was having a stroke; of course, I was fine. For the next few weeks it would happen when I was sitting in class, walking, or laying down. Weird, but again, I managed to ignore it after a while.
About a month ago, I was trying to fall asleep, and suddenly there was a rush of adrenaline. My heart was racing, my breathing felt like gasps, and everything was spinning. Time seemed to stretch on forever, and after a few minutes it'd end, only to start again. Those panic attacks would hit me at random times, including when I was driving, studying, and even taking one of my finals. They'd also hit me when I was trying to sleep, making me almost perpetually tired. I managed to nab a 4.0 this semester, but I feel pretty confident that, had the semester been two weeks longer, I would have failed everything. I was not there, at all. I felt like a zombie, with some sort of haze between my mind and the rest of the world.
All three of those stories can be linked back to one very recent diagnosis; a panic disorder. When you say that, people get uncomfortable. They picture something mental like depression or anxiety: being afraid, being stressed, or being easily tipped over the edge. What it really is, is purely physical -- symptoms, without any mental effect or outside trigger, caused when your body randomly produces all the adrenaline of a "fight-or-flight" situation for no reason.
Since I was diagnosed two weeks ago, I've been taking Lexapro to treat it. Unfortunately, that's the same sort of drug they use to treat anxiety or depression (the doctor, kindly, didn't tell me that). Which means it has all the side effects you hear about; tiredness, nausea, and just a general feeling of being absent. It's really a lot like movies like Garden State portray it as; you feel slow, and everything around you is moving in fast-forward. It's enough to make me determined to stop taking it, and try to beat this cold turkey. But the internet tells me I have potentially massive withdrawal symptoms to look forward to, including something called a "brain zap." I don't even want to know what that is.
I don't tell you all of this just as a confessional (though it's also that.) What it's really made me think about, lately, is how broad a spectrum there is between the physical and mental aspects of human experience. There were days, like the ones in November and February, where every waking moment was concerned with base physical phenomena. Even though I knew better, it felt like pure survival half the time: trying to keep breathing, trying to slow my heartrate, etc. Other times, like the medicinal haze I've been in lately, I'm fully on the mental spectrum, partially removed from the world around me. I'm more aware now, than ever, of how much I take for granted the perfect balance we have.
In daily life, we strive to find that equilibrium. We're conscious and aware of our surroundings, but we leave the most physical of activities (breathing, heartbeat, etc.) to the body to take care of. Our brain is regulating them, but our mind is concerned with loftier things. We're able to think in the most abstract of terms, while walking around with a coordination that even the best machines still can't achieve; it's incredible. When we're tipped one way or another, we can recover. Sometimes we feel too physical (after, say, a day of strenuous exercise), and all we need is to sleep, dream, and be fully mental. Other times we feel too mental (after, say, the stress of schoolwork) and all we want is to exercise, run, and be purely physical.
Because mine isn't a mood-altering disorder, I know I can stop taking meds and kick the symptoms on my own. But I also know that some people don't have the luxury. Some, with real depression or anxiety disorders, just can't reach that equilibrium, and are stuck taking pills for life. After experiencing the absence and haziness, I've come away with a newfound respect for those who do need to rely on medication, or struggle without it. Just from the few glimpses I've had of tipping one way or another on the mental-physical spectrum, I can honestly say that the last few months contained some of the most uncomfortable, terrifying feelings I've ever experienced.
In the meantime, I might have awesome withdrawal symptoms in my future. So look forward to some sort of post on my epic "journey to freedom", complete with Garden-Statey images of standing on a car and yelling in the rain, watching the sunrise after a long night alone in the desert, or other cheesy, hackneyed metaphors. Maybe I'll even take a solitary road trip up the coast to "find myself", or go rock climbing during a thunderstorm. Hey, I'm only human.
This February I was studying for a midterm at a coffee shop, and the left side of my body felt numb. I figured I was just tired, and went to bed. The next morning, in the middle of my midterm, it happened again. I called the University Health Services, and the nurse on the phone freaked out and made me go to urgent care (missing another midterm). She thought I was having a stroke; of course, I was fine. For the next few weeks it would happen when I was sitting in class, walking, or laying down. Weird, but again, I managed to ignore it after a while.
About a month ago, I was trying to fall asleep, and suddenly there was a rush of adrenaline. My heart was racing, my breathing felt like gasps, and everything was spinning. Time seemed to stretch on forever, and after a few minutes it'd end, only to start again. Those panic attacks would hit me at random times, including when I was driving, studying, and even taking one of my finals. They'd also hit me when I was trying to sleep, making me almost perpetually tired. I managed to nab a 4.0 this semester, but I feel pretty confident that, had the semester been two weeks longer, I would have failed everything. I was not there, at all. I felt like a zombie, with some sort of haze between my mind and the rest of the world.
All three of those stories can be linked back to one very recent diagnosis; a panic disorder. When you say that, people get uncomfortable. They picture something mental like depression or anxiety: being afraid, being stressed, or being easily tipped over the edge. What it really is, is purely physical -- symptoms, without any mental effect or outside trigger, caused when your body randomly produces all the adrenaline of a "fight-or-flight" situation for no reason.
Since I was diagnosed two weeks ago, I've been taking Lexapro to treat it. Unfortunately, that's the same sort of drug they use to treat anxiety or depression (the doctor, kindly, didn't tell me that). Which means it has all the side effects you hear about; tiredness, nausea, and just a general feeling of being absent. It's really a lot like movies like Garden State portray it as; you feel slow, and everything around you is moving in fast-forward. It's enough to make me determined to stop taking it, and try to beat this cold turkey. But the internet tells me I have potentially massive withdrawal symptoms to look forward to, including something called a "brain zap." I don't even want to know what that is.
I don't tell you all of this just as a confessional (though it's also that.) What it's really made me think about, lately, is how broad a spectrum there is between the physical and mental aspects of human experience. There were days, like the ones in November and February, where every waking moment was concerned with base physical phenomena. Even though I knew better, it felt like pure survival half the time: trying to keep breathing, trying to slow my heartrate, etc. Other times, like the medicinal haze I've been in lately, I'm fully on the mental spectrum, partially removed from the world around me. I'm more aware now, than ever, of how much I take for granted the perfect balance we have.
In daily life, we strive to find that equilibrium. We're conscious and aware of our surroundings, but we leave the most physical of activities (breathing, heartbeat, etc.) to the body to take care of. Our brain is regulating them, but our mind is concerned with loftier things. We're able to think in the most abstract of terms, while walking around with a coordination that even the best machines still can't achieve; it's incredible. When we're tipped one way or another, we can recover. Sometimes we feel too physical (after, say, a day of strenuous exercise), and all we need is to sleep, dream, and be fully mental. Other times we feel too mental (after, say, the stress of schoolwork) and all we want is to exercise, run, and be purely physical.
Because mine isn't a mood-altering disorder, I know I can stop taking meds and kick the symptoms on my own. But I also know that some people don't have the luxury. Some, with real depression or anxiety disorders, just can't reach that equilibrium, and are stuck taking pills for life. After experiencing the absence and haziness, I've come away with a newfound respect for those who do need to rely on medication, or struggle without it. Just from the few glimpses I've had of tipping one way or another on the mental-physical spectrum, I can honestly say that the last few months contained some of the most uncomfortable, terrifying feelings I've ever experienced.
In the meantime, I might have awesome withdrawal symptoms in my future. So look forward to some sort of post on my epic "journey to freedom", complete with Garden-Statey images of standing on a car and yelling in the rain, watching the sunrise after a long night alone in the desert, or other cheesy, hackneyed metaphors. Maybe I'll even take a solitary road trip up the coast to "find myself", or go rock climbing during a thunderstorm. Hey, I'm only human.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
A Criticism from my Younger Self
Last night I spent a few hours getting coffee / Denny's with a friend of mine. Somewhere in the late night rambling conversation, it came up that someone or a group of someones were under the impression that I was "losing my morals" up at Berkeley -- sparked, I'm guessing, by a Facebook note I wrote about why I wasn't voting Yes on Prop 8.
Obviously, whoever it was didn't mean anything by it. I'm not going to tirade against "gossip" or martyr myself like that; it happens to everyone, it's no big deal, and it didn't even really bother me. But it did get me thinking about changes in my life, and how a perception like that could come about. In particular, what the 13-year-old Stephen Miller would think about 20-year-old one. His opinion, I'm sure, would be at least as harsh.
At 13, I was perfectly content with my beliefs and my lifestyle. I was a strong Christian -- never, for a moment, shaken or doubting. I was a Young Earth Creationist, armed with plenty of arguments to defend my position in debates or discussions. I was a Republican, the only sensible thing to be. My beliefs were set in stone, and I not only knew they were true; I knew I could persuade anyone else that they were true if the need arose. Anyone of the opposing viewpoint was clearly just stubborn. I was more sure of myself, at that age, than I have been ever since.
Looking back, that sort of cockiness seems unreasonable -- it was presumptuous to think that so much of the world was willfully ignorant, and that all of their so-called difficult questions could be answered by a 13-year-old with braces and a bowl cut. But it's hard to criticize myself for it. It's how I was raised, and I imagine how most people were raised. We're taught our parents' values (moral or political) and until we're old enough to learn the subtleties of the issues, we're left with only black-and-white sketches. We think that those sketches, a summary of the issues through a biased lens, are really all there is to the argument. With that mindset, one side will always seem obvious, and the other stupid or immoral. I don't think it's indoctrination, it's just a necessary part of growing up. If any child actually limited himself to proper evidence and argument, he'd have no convictions at all; he just doesn't have the wisdom to sort through it all.
Anyway, that's a tangent. Back to the point, 13-year-old Stephen doesn't approve of me. He sees my political leanings as wishy-washy and pathetic, a compromise of my values in an effort to seem "open". He sees my views on the age of the earth as a distortion of the character of God, and a picking-and-choosing of Biblical truths. He sees the entertainment I expose myself to and the people I surround myself with as disgusting and unchristian. He is indignant about some of the sins I've committed, and how many standards I've abandoned. He sees me as just another person with such potential, wasted to the empty skepticism college brings. He knows I still have faith, but sees it as carnal and hollow.
Not all of those criticisms are misinformed; some of them are real, and I seriously need to consider them. What image do I portray of myself? Do I live out what I say? Was the confidence I used to have, flawed as it may have been, better than the state of my life now? Was my de-sheltering process worth the loss of innocence? How will I raise my kids to see the world? What will I think of myself in another 7 years?
Comments welcome.
Obviously, whoever it was didn't mean anything by it. I'm not going to tirade against "gossip" or martyr myself like that; it happens to everyone, it's no big deal, and it didn't even really bother me. But it did get me thinking about changes in my life, and how a perception like that could come about. In particular, what the 13-year-old Stephen Miller would think about 20-year-old one. His opinion, I'm sure, would be at least as harsh.
At 13, I was perfectly content with my beliefs and my lifestyle. I was a strong Christian -- never, for a moment, shaken or doubting. I was a Young Earth Creationist, armed with plenty of arguments to defend my position in debates or discussions. I was a Republican, the only sensible thing to be. My beliefs were set in stone, and I not only knew they were true; I knew I could persuade anyone else that they were true if the need arose. Anyone of the opposing viewpoint was clearly just stubborn. I was more sure of myself, at that age, than I have been ever since.
Looking back, that sort of cockiness seems unreasonable -- it was presumptuous to think that so much of the world was willfully ignorant, and that all of their so-called difficult questions could be answered by a 13-year-old with braces and a bowl cut. But it's hard to criticize myself for it. It's how I was raised, and I imagine how most people were raised. We're taught our parents' values (moral or political) and until we're old enough to learn the subtleties of the issues, we're left with only black-and-white sketches. We think that those sketches, a summary of the issues through a biased lens, are really all there is to the argument. With that mindset, one side will always seem obvious, and the other stupid or immoral. I don't think it's indoctrination, it's just a necessary part of growing up. If any child actually limited himself to proper evidence and argument, he'd have no convictions at all; he just doesn't have the wisdom to sort through it all.
Anyway, that's a tangent. Back to the point, 13-year-old Stephen doesn't approve of me. He sees my political leanings as wishy-washy and pathetic, a compromise of my values in an effort to seem "open". He sees my views on the age of the earth as a distortion of the character of God, and a picking-and-choosing of Biblical truths. He sees the entertainment I expose myself to and the people I surround myself with as disgusting and unchristian. He is indignant about some of the sins I've committed, and how many standards I've abandoned. He sees me as just another person with such potential, wasted to the empty skepticism college brings. He knows I still have faith, but sees it as carnal and hollow.
Not all of those criticisms are misinformed; some of them are real, and I seriously need to consider them. What image do I portray of myself? Do I live out what I say? Was the confidence I used to have, flawed as it may have been, better than the state of my life now? Was my de-sheltering process worth the loss of innocence? How will I raise my kids to see the world? What will I think of myself in another 7 years?
Comments welcome.
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