Thinking of the Gom Jabbar

I like my life to be simple. A lot of people would call it boring, and I wouldn’t really disagree with them: I like quiet nights at home more than wild nights on the town. Always have. I don’t want to lose myself or let myself go. I want to hear myself think.

Probably I like the sound of my own brain too much. I used to think that made me deeper and my life more meaningful than others’. Where they wasted time on silly things like bonding with others over shared experiences and growing pains, I was alone in my room thinking deep thoughts like “It’s weird that I still don’t have a girlfriend” and “I bet I’m going to be really awesome some day”.

I’m probably always going to be an introvert. Obviously I could go out and be more social. I really should be: despite all my quirks, neither I nor anyone else on this earth should try to live in isolation. We are social animals and we need each other. But my baseline preference to spend a higher-than-typical amount of time alone probably won’t change. I find it hard to imagine accomodating a serious relationship like that – never mind the extremely slight chance that Miss Right will fall into my arms as I sit in my living room, I’m not sure how I could persuade her that my need for alone time isn’t in conflict with her need to be with me (or a rejection of my need to be with her).

I tend to see relationships as obligations. I owe something to those who have chosen to befriend me. I am required to be interested in them and supportive of them. Debits and credits, give and take, all of it requiring balance and constant awareness. And I’m not entirely sure that’s an inaccurate or unhealthy way to look at it – I do owe my friends something, after all.

The trouble is that I don’t really guess my ability to pay what’s owed. I let myself off the hook because loving and being a good friend doesn’t come naturally to me: it’s risky business, it requires vulnerability and putting yourself on the line for someone else, and that’s scary territory for me. It’s funny that I don’t shrink from my elaborately romanticized notions of romantic commitment, but committing to friends and family is something I have to learn and practice.  Probably because I’ve built the idea of being in a relationship with a woman into this Holy Grail in my mind – the end-all be-all of perfect and permanent happiness – whereas being a friend is something more everyday, more “the norm”.  I still have a lot of the Hollywoodized ideas of relationships in my mind.

And of course, being a depressed person with BPD and poor self-esteem, I tend to underestimate why on earth anyone would want anything to do with me. (Or I veer off into narcissism and just assume that the mere fact of my presence in someone’s life is a benefit that outweighs the negatives of dealing with my crap. My head is a mare’s nest.)

So being my friend is more anthill than picnic blanket. I can be a good friend. Those who know me will tell you that there have been times they could count on me, times I was a delight to be around, times I was supportive and helpful and loving. It’s not always narcissism and abuse – I’m capable of changing my behavior and managing my conditions.

But I get lax. I used to think it was that I wasn’t hard enough on myself, but really it’s more to do with not holding on tight enough to what makes my life better. I want my life to be a plateau, not an upward slope: I want to reach some point where I can say “good enough” and just kind of coast. And I’m quick to assume that the place where I’m standing is that plateau, that since it’s better than the usual depressed and isolated nightmare that it’s fine to stand there. But I’m standing on a dune, and wind and tide are whittling it back down into the water. It’s the frog in the pot letting the water get hotter.

I let things slip. And then when I catch on, I beat myself up for doing it. I decide I’m not worthy, that I shouldn’t try to get up because down is where I belong, because justice demands blood. Let that be a lesson to me! The burned hand teaches best.

But that assumes a brain better-wired than mine. Mine treats pain as a thing to be avoided at all costs. If it hurts, don’t try to find a way to do it that won’t hurt and don’t think of the pleasure beyond the pain: just don’t get hurt again. Mneme often talks about how none of us are getting our deposits back. And I remember the third servant in the parable of the talents.

I picked up my old paperpack copy of “Dune” the other day. Early in the book a priestess subjects the teenage protagonist to the test of the gom jabbar: he must keep his hand in a fire or be killed instantly with a poisoned needle at his neck. After the test, she reveals that the fire was only simulated and his hand is unhurt. The object of the test is to verify his humanity – an animal would gnaw its leg off to escape the trap, but a human sees her way to the other side of the pain and a greater good.

I don’t think I would  pass the test of the gom jabbar right now. I want my life painless and simple, something handed to me. If it costs I’d rather not. But that gets me only what I have. That gets me seconds on  a clock, more days where I’ve made no memories and put nothing in the bank against the inevitable rainy day.

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