Will We Be Graded on This?

Know thyself. - Socrates

I apologize in advance for the fact that a lot of my posts have been real bummers to read. I write what's going on in my head, and lately it hasn't been a pleasure cruise. This one's not much better. I'm trying not to be poor little myopic, and I'm honestly not doing this for sympathy. I write what's on my mind, in hopes of finding answers and solutions by getting things out in the open, out of my system. And at this point, Blogger is cheaper than therapy.

There's a recurring part of Rosencrantz's novel where various people are asked the question "Who are you?" by an unidentified voice or person, and the interviewees scramble to come up with an answer to satisfy the questioner. Lately this has been on my mind. I'm having trouble coming up with an answer.

It seems like an easy enough query. I'm a 33 year old woman...

(No, that just classifies you. Who are you?)

Umm...I'm a corporate trained raccoon, a former bartender, a would-be writer...

(No good. That's what you do. Who are you?)

Fine. I'm my parent's daughter. I'm a sister. I'm an aunt. I'm friends with...

(Did I ask about your relationships? No. Answer the question. Who are you?)

Hell if I know. Lately I've just felt empty inside. Not necessarily depressed, just...not here. Depressed would at least be something, an emotion. (Well, pondering on the emptiness sometimes does lead to depression. Then I find myself all weepy-eyed with Radiohead's "Just" on continuous repeat.)

Last week, after numerous attempts to post my latest entry failed (the server at work chose to crash as I was hitting "post," my entry turned out to be too long and Blogger ate the whole thing and replaced it with the cryptic phrase "[BigBody]"), I gave up and started to head home. My mood was not great, and the anger I was holding within my body gave way to the empty feeling. It felt like I was just watching the world from my body, but not in any control. My body felt too big for me, and I was running on autopilot. It scared the hell out of me, and resulted in me texting Roger Mexico at a late hour. He told me to come over, and when I arrived at his door, he asked me what was wrong.

I had no answer for him. I knew something was wrong, but I had no idea what it was.

You'd think after 33 years, I'd know my way around my brain. Sometimes I do, but at times it seems like someone's been moving the furniture and I feel like a stranger in my own head. It's turning into the house in Mark Z. Danielewski's House of Leaves with hallways and doors and staircases that weren't there before, and may not be there again. Pathways that go on for miles, even though it's physically impossible. Exits you may never find your way back to, even if you leave a trail of breadcrumbs or flares marking each twist and turn. Exits that may not even exist when and if you find your way back to your starting point. I'm afraid of finding myself trapped in that unending labyrinth for eternity, with no one even noticing or suspecting that I'm somehow concealed behind that blank wall with a few chipping nail holes.

I know it's human nature to define ourselves by what we do, who we know, our relationships with them. Daughter. Sister. Aunt. Friend. Writer. Slave to the Man.

If all of this is true, then who am I when I'm not with friends and family? When I'm not at my job, when I'm not writing? I feel less defined when I don't have something to be to someone. It's easier to "be" when I can be concerned with a full inbox at work, my sister's pregnancy, or Nash's job woes. Taking Roger Mexico to work when his car is in the shop, feeding Zappagirl's cats while she's visiting Timmy, researching facts for a lengthy opinion post - that gives me something to do, someone to be. A cause. A purpose.

When it's just me and four walls, there's an uncomfortable silence. Kind of a moment where I look at myself and ask, "Well, now what?" only to be met by no answer. There's just nothingness, and it stretches on as far as I can see. Contemplating the infinite void and trying to make it fit into a nice, neat, finite and tangible "something" doesn't seem to be a task I can even comprehend.

Then I realize that the infintie void already is contained in a nice, neat, finite, and tangible "something" - me, which means I can't define myself and I'm back to square one.

Defining yourself is not something you can crib the answers for from a friend's paper. And asking them isn't much a help either because they're too busy trying to figure out who they are to give you the solutions to the mysteries of Life. Besides, I've gotten to the point where I feel bad about calling friends to save me from myself. Too many of us have been on crisis watch for too many other people, and it takes a lot out of you. I should be able to handle this myself, and not be asking for help every five minutes. Sooner or later, people get tired of continually throwing out the Life preserver, and would like to get out of the storm, retire from the rescue committee, warm their feet by the fire and sip a steaming mug of hot chocolate.

So, yeah, I'm reluctant to ask for help. I keep figuring I'll find my way out if I keep moving down the perpetually winding darkened hallway. But right now my torch is starting to sputter, and the blackness that surrounds me is starting to give me the weebies.

Linda thought her life was empty, filled it up with alcohol.
- "88 Lines About 44 Women, " The Nails

Sometimes I think that's why I'm good at useless trivia, or why I collect pages of notes for poems and stories and Blogger entries that I never get around to writing. When something seems empty and the emptiness is frightening, there's an instinct to fill the void. Maybe I'm trying to fill up the nothingness with tiny scraps of paper with dumb facts written on them. It's a habit, an addiction, something to do. And it's less damaging than alcoholism or a crack habit.

After I go home and take off all the hats that define me that I've been wearing throughout the day, sometimes I don't recognize myself in the mirror. I DON'T HAVE A HAT. I LACK DEFINITION.

Of course then I worry it's like that scene in Singles, and not having a hat is actually my hat. And I don't know where to return my invisible hat for a refund. There are no metaphysical millinery shops in the Yellow Pages. Nor have I been able to find a store that sells Cliffs Notes for the questions I keep asking myself.

Can I take an incomplete in this class and start over?