I remember your essay where you first described that concussion and it was incredibly pervaded by this huge sense of relief — ‘finally I have an external cause to blame for the ways I fucked up my life’! I definitely got the sense that there was some strongly motivated reasoning there.
But maybe you’re generally just too hard on yourself. I mean, I’ve been reading you since you were trying to make a career as Mr Male Feminist and I get that your peccadilloes made it totally irresistible for other people and apparently for yourself most of all to judge you in the most intense possible manner. But what if you’re a garden variety sort of fucked up philanderer, kind of vain and really good at charming women, who just rode it too far? It really messed up your life in part because of your own penchant for self-dramatization and in the end self-flagellation, but I never got the sense that anything you actually did with other people was really so awful. I mean, I wasn’t there, but you fucked around, a lot of people do.
When you get to know them a LOT of people, maybe the majority, are kind of screwed up in one dimension or other of their lives. A long long way from perfect, that’s for sure. And that’s without any major concussions. Most live it out in private and only a few people close to them know. Maybe you’re just another one of them, but you chose to live it out more in public.
Anyway sorry if this is too personal, feel free to delete.
'[w]e listen to how those stories are received, we shape our narratives according to the responses we receive." This has always really disturbed and kind of scared me - not only that we adjust the way we tell our stories, but that in doing so we obscure the fresh memories. It is so disorienting to contemplate how plastic our minds are, and that we pretty much are constantly stirring the pots of our consciousness and messing things up (I rarely am better for stewing on things and the increasing blurriness of things is distressing to me. Makes me feel so ephemeral). I am not at all surprised you didn't discuss this for decades and I imagine that to a large extent you kept them submerged from yourself. It's so confusing to be human. I am sorry for your long and isolated suffering. As always, your stories help me so much to understand myself and life in general.
I remember your essay where you first described that concussion and it was incredibly pervaded by this huge sense of relief — ‘finally I have an external cause to blame for the ways I fucked up my life’! I definitely got the sense that there was some strongly motivated reasoning there.
But maybe you’re generally just too hard on yourself. I mean, I’ve been reading you since you were trying to make a career as Mr Male Feminist and I get that your peccadilloes made it totally irresistible for other people and apparently for yourself most of all to judge you in the most intense possible manner. But what if you’re a garden variety sort of fucked up philanderer, kind of vain and really good at charming women, who just rode it too far? It really messed up your life in part because of your own penchant for self-dramatization and in the end self-flagellation, but I never got the sense that anything you actually did with other people was really so awful. I mean, I wasn’t there, but you fucked around, a lot of people do.
When you get to know them a LOT of people, maybe the majority, are kind of screwed up in one dimension or other of their lives. A long long way from perfect, that’s for sure. And that’s without any major concussions. Most live it out in private and only a few people close to them know. Maybe you’re just another one of them, but you chose to live it out more in public.
Anyway sorry if this is too personal, feel free to delete.
'[w]e listen to how those stories are received, we shape our narratives according to the responses we receive." This has always really disturbed and kind of scared me - not only that we adjust the way we tell our stories, but that in doing so we obscure the fresh memories. It is so disorienting to contemplate how plastic our minds are, and that we pretty much are constantly stirring the pots of our consciousness and messing things up (I rarely am better for stewing on things and the increasing blurriness of things is distressing to me. Makes me feel so ephemeral). I am not at all surprised you didn't discuss this for decades and I imagine that to a large extent you kept them submerged from yourself. It's so confusing to be human. I am sorry for your long and isolated suffering. As always, your stories help me so much to understand myself and life in general.