Sleepy tired contentedness: or how I got weird

It is an ideal October evening in Montana, and I find myself settling further in to ‘normal’. I’ve had people ruffle their brow at me when I mention ‘normal’ (as if I am invoking Holy Spirit itself or some such thing), but others know. They, like me, have seen the other side of ‘normal’ and likewise gleefully welcome it back.

We are all a little bit screwed up; mental illness is a spectrum, yes. But any sudden movement from one end of that spectrum to another and you too will find yourself longing for the ‘normal’ illness you’re used to (in my case a touch of depression with very rare anxiety but otherwise really – in the broad sense – ‘normal’).

Sigh.

This is one reason I recommend blogging/journaling of some sort to people. It is an opportunity to see yourself through time: look at your dreams, ambitions, hopes, desires, fears, worries and so on. See how you have grown – or not – and what has remained constant. In Sartrian terms, we are more able to see our ‘facticity‘ — the ‘me’ of the past which is pushing me forward in ways ‘I’ do not, cannot fully comprehend.

Speaking of which, I have sometimes wondered if my whole foray into religious ethics wasn’t in some great part due to the intense disapproval I felt from a certain crotchety old Irish ex-priest (the father of my first love). It’s doubtful, but an interesting thing to look at how certain characters from our past have shaped us, propelled us in directions that we don’t really want to go in but still simply feel compelled. My parents seemed equally accepting and reassuring of me when I wanted to be a farmer, an accountant, a witch (yea, not a warlock, but a witch – I was young), and eventually a university professor. So I can’t really blame any of my neuroses on them – darn them.

Weird. Smiles. Sleepy. Happy.