Orientation

Those of us who know the human psyche well (and who are, nonetheless, still ensnared by its machinations) know that at its steepest pitch opposites are juxtaposed. At the height of passion--the most quivering energetic passion--contraries are consecutive. Love and hate, joy and despair are side by side. The human heart is like a compass, where a single degree distinguishes its bearing. Due west and due east are far apart, but they are tepid--neither moving up nor down. But at its greatest heights--north by northwest and north by northeast--the direction is nearly indistinguishable! The closer one's bearing is due north, the more difficult it is to tell whether a traveler is occidental or oriental. At the top of the compass, we are splitting hairs. Because of this, we can understand how an enemy can more easily be granted clemency than a luke-warm ally. We can also explain how crimes of passion are carried out against loved ones.

I know myself well and know that I am horribly lost. I have a low-tolerance for imperfection. You may even call it an allergy given that I swell with contempt whenever I am exposed to it. I do not like smudges. I frown at a frayed shoelace. I cringe around squeaks. I lose sleep over a watch that keeps poor time. These errors are associated with me. They are mine--in my very home! How could I bear to keep such company?

So much stomach acid and obsessive thoughts I have generated in response to these annoyances that I have begun to worry for my own health. While most people might lose sleep over a dripping faucet, I have lost waking productivity. I will ruminate on the cursed plumbing and curse the ruinous plumber who feigned to fix it. The conniving weasel, the disingenuous swindler! How dare he enter my house and perpetrate such a vile act! How dare he use me for his own unjust gain! I spend hours lamenting this broken fixture and decry its every drop as a personal offense against me. Try as I might to pluck such lamentations out of my mind, they sneak back like weeds in a lawn. As soon as I stop reminding myself to breathe deeply and let it go, I hyperventilate and draw it near. There is ample fodder for discontent when one feeds on flaws.

This preoccupation tarnishes the rest of my daily experience. I become short-tempered and incorrigible over these trifles. Surely these damaged items are trivialities, and yet I easily fixate on them. I am enthralled with them and enjoy in a twisted way heaping scorn upon them. Why can I not let this rest? Perhaps there is a quota in every person's heart beyond which no more brokenness can be tolerated. My bar may be set low. Wouldn't that be honorable?

If only it were that simple! It is not, however, the full story. Here I will come clean. These offenses are not isolated outside of me. I openly admit I am also frustrated with myself. It is true I abhor my own company. I hate myself so thoroughly because I know how wretched I am. I err constantly. I have worn well the path of anxiety over my missteps. This frailty does not change. At times its consistency is the cause for my distraction. I am no more likely to notice wrongdoing than to notice room temperature. It is as though I have moved on, as though I am past the point of reflexive frustration. What can change--what I am thereby apt to notice--is something near me that does not work. Could that explain it all? I hold these objects in boiling contempt because I am already hot under the collar with my own self-loathing. They become the last-straws of my back-breaking solitude.

My situation is still more complex, though. I cannot leave the topic like that and let you think I am simply a misguided fool who is "his own worst critic." No, that would still be a truncated version of my story. You might pity me then, and to let you do so would be unfair. I cannot allow you to squander your empathy. It would be disingenuous to suggest I am only self-loathing. I feel I must--to be honest--offer the additional and contrary explanation.

I must confess pride may be causing me to rebel against seemingly minor blemishes on the countenance of my surroundings. Perhaps there is a quota of desserts in every man's heart below which no more brokenness can be tolerated. My bar may be set low. When I am handed a shoddy gift, a paltry recompense, I cry I worked harder than this! I am a good and honest person and I should not be burdened with these base inconveniences! I want nothing to do with this trash. I refuse this refuse! Yes, these too are stumbling blocks of thought upon which I trip. I cannot take it any longer. I am miserable.

Something must be done to point myself in the right direction. "Let it go," I hear you say. Yes, yes, fine and well. I will gladly let it go. But how can I be rid of it when it is gripping me? I have tried to release myself from it, but they cling to me. I go about my day, and everything is fine, and then something happens--a pen is out of place or a door won't lock--and my hatred is reignited. "Then let it go again," you insist. Bah! That is not easy. Should I count to ten like a child in timeout?! Should I leave the room like an infirmed person who has to purge?! The ignobility of it all! I should not have to resort to such hackneyed tactics. They are beneath me. A man should be able to vanquish his own mind!

Now I would laugh at myself if I weren't so weary. You have caught me in the act as it were. Yes, my pride has gotten in the way once more. How turned around we become when we are by ourselves! Let it go again: I will have to try that. Yours is tough love, but it's love all the same. I do not want to take my medicine. It is bitter. If I am really as feverish and dismayed as the above indicates, I need to take my medicine. I need to rest. If only it would stop this topsy-turvy place from spinning!