Plight of the Ridiculous

A ridiculous, yet probably relative story. "I am a ridiculous person. Now they call me a madman. That would be a promotion if it were not that I remain as ridiculous in their eyes as before. But now I do not resent it, they are all dear to me now, even when they laugh at me - and, indeed, it is just then that they are particularly dear to me. I could join in their laughter - not exactly at myself, but through affection for them, if I did not feel so sad as I look at them. Sad because they do not know the truth and I do know it. Oh, how hard it is to be the only one who knows the truth! But they won't understand that. No, they won't understand it." - Dostoevsky from "The Dream of a Ridiculous Man"I've been called ridiculous, on more than one occasion, usually in a light hearted manner. I've never been offended; in fact I consider it quite amusing. What I wonder, does Dostoyevsky refer to when he says, "Sad because they do not know the truth and I do know it?" What is the truth that he is referring to? Do he and I share this truth as we share ridiculous tendencies? I want to know.There was a time, around the age of 8, when I changed my mind about who I was going to be. I was shy-horribly shy, and I can't imagine the extremity of what my social anxiety could have been if I would have remained so. Somehow, I managed to not only change, but to rebel in a way that was the complete opposite of who I was. Even at the age of 8 this was a conscious decision. I exploited myself for the purpose of humor. I was entertaining and lively. But no one wants to be a joker in the Queens court. I had turned into a dancer, an artist, an illusionist, and I could distract myself and others with colors, movement, and sounds. I could make them laugh when they should have cried, and I continued to do this because I could live through them and laugh myself.Somehow I could handle being center stage. I was light hearted and humorous, but unsure of myself. It was only in times of seriousness, that I often kept silent. There was a difference in the interaction of myself and others, when I was in control of the show. But when the moment demanded confrontation and the attitude was serious, I shied away- something I still struggle with to this day.
I wanted to be the Queen. But how awkward of a child I was- very tall and skinny, and I had big feet and was clumsy. My lack of physical grace had in turn manifested a lack of confidence. My social anxiety caused me to trip over my words. When I was about the age of 11 I had written in my diary once a “to do” list, and on it I had included 'practice walking and talking'. I laugh about it now, but in a way it still seems very sad to me. I had grasped the idea of social grace long before most, and I begin to instill it in myself during my youth. I did this for the wrong reasons; I wanted to create an illusion of what I was not. I was all ready denying my individuality.The reality of what was happening is best described by Kierkegaard, "I too have both the tragic and the comic in me: I am witty and the people laugh-but I cry." With time came resentment and I grew less focused on the exploitation of myself, but instead the exploitation of what was happening around me. I became sarcastic, witty, and increasingly cynical. I had begun to realize the power of my social grace and began to use it not for pleasing others, but instead for my own manipulative purposes. (I don't feel bad about this.) I was about 13 now, and I had done a complete 180 from where I had been. The year before I had entered junior high and struggled just as everyone else to make a name for myself. But now I was in the 7th grade, and my memory of this year is one of my favorites. I don't remember anything, anything except for my patterns of thought. I remember little because my memory of this time is so surreal. I can look back and see myself sitting in the cafeteria; everything is silent- even though I am surrounded by chattering girls. The reason I am so fond of this memory is because I couldn't hear them then either, often I chose not too. They were probably talking about boys, boobs, and brand name clothes- things that were of little interest to me at the time. I wore an over sized burgundy Old Navy sweatshirt with a rustic looking truck on it, cargo jeans, and my hair back in a bun, nearly every day. I don't even know how I managed to fit in with them, they were all growing up, concerned about 'older' things, and they were becoming sexualized. The only thing we had in common anymore was that fact that in one way or another, we had previously established our dominance through childhood. The reality of it then is pretty much the same as the reality of it now, we were cute kids. We were born noble because of this. That's it. But things were different now, with me anyway. I remember eating as the rest of the girls dipped their croutons in ranch because it was all they would eat when boys were watching. I didn't care about this. In fact, I doubted there was anyone watching anyway, and instead I sat with my chin in my hands staring at the people at other tables, searching their faces for a sign- wondering if they felt just as lost as I was.
There is another memory I have of my 13th year, and that is my memories of home. It’s safe to assume that things were bad, but I think that I've blocked most of it out. What I do remember is my room, dark and filled with candles. I'd sit in my room for hours, reading, writing, and usually contemplating my spirituality. I would become so confused that I would give up and cry. I had declared war on God, I had rejected everything I knew- authority, social construct, self restraint. I contemplated purpose, my own purpose, the purpose of others, and just an objective purpose in general.
My parents and I did not get along. I had went from being a fun and outgoing child to a secluded and bitter teenager over night. I was slightly mischievous as a child and my parents over compensative view of discipline led me to be grounded the majority of my early teenage life. But now I had grounded myself, and instead of my parents trying to suppress me, they would beg me to go out, leave the house, socialize with people. My mother began to worry about me, she considered me depressed and she was right. Once she had cut a photo out of Time magazine and taped it to the wall by the stairwell leading to my room. I remember coming home from school and staring at it. It was a photo of a starving African boy in the desert, curled into a ball with his head in his hands. There was a vulture nearby, looking on, waiting for him to die. My mom did this to set my perspective straight. She wanted to teach me that it was unfair to come home bitter and angry at the world when I have so much more than most. Her heart was in the right place, and that picture is the basis of my entire perspective, and it’s in my mind forever. But what she failed to realize is what I was upset about in the first place, it wasn't trivial teenage anguish. It was exactly what was in that photo that I was worried about to begin with. It was times like this when I thought about the girls and their croutons, their refusal to eat because they were embarrassed to. I would look at that photo and just feel so angry. The child in that photo was probably all ready dead, he didn't starve himself- he didn't have a choice. Here I wasn't yet laughing at people thinking that I was ridiculous, I was angry. How, how was I possibly the ridiculous one? This is where I think that I began to see some of that truth that Dostoyevsky was talking about.
Later on this same year, my aunt and uncle had moved up here from Texas and had to temporarily live with us while they found a house. My uncle told me that I was the most jaded 13 year old he had ever met. I remember this because it surprised me that someone perceived me the way that I was in a positive light. My mother would drag me through years of counseling soon after, because she had concluded that I had no emotions, feeling, and was heartless. That was never the problem; in fact the problem was the opposite. I had a lot of feelings, a lot of intense feelings, which were only poorly displayed because of my confusion. I wanted to say or do something, but I felt helpless, like a slave to the futility of it all.
All through high school I remained the same- neutral, indifferent, apathetic. But it never kept me from being hopeful. Though I hated tended to despise the way humans acted, I always loved humanity. I was nice, but got close to few. These years were uneventful, somewhat boring, but I never sold myself out. I guess that’s more than most can say of high school.
The changes have been more predominant in recent years, though it was slow. I refrained from being involved in the traditional college environment for my first two years out of school. In fact, I had overcome a large feat of resentment and was the happiest I had ever been, though still not contented. I was less indifferent now, I was more empathetic. But it was when I did indulge in the college scene that things again changed for me. I became self destructive, and had returned to that power of social grace so that I could again manipulate people according to my own will. I do what I wanted, without inhibition. But because I was always acting, I exploited not myself, but others. My apathy was in full force this time, and it was dangerous. Though I'm speaking of this in past tense, it’s barely passed. I've only recently began to acknowledge it, though it brings a lot of anxiety, there are so many nihilistic tendencies that need to be destroyed. But on the contrary, my social abilities have blossomed in a way that I no longer fear other people, but welcome their difference. Not that I don't do this without skepticism- that will surely never change. But I find myself to be more accepting of others than most.
And though things have changed, back and forth and in many ways, nothing has. I'm a combination of all of these personas I mentioned. I'm still shy, I still manipulate through social grace, and I struggle between apathy and empathy. But what I find to be most important is that I've always preserved that same perspective. I've always asked questions, I do what I want to do (which I usually manage to do without hurting others) and I'm unconcerned with what they think of it. I gave up a long time ago with trying to mold myself to being something that I'm not. And though the reality of who I am is still diluted with elements of grace, I have not changed.
I've run into many people who I knew in school, and it is always interesting to talk to these people and see how they've changed. The fact that I'm happy to be talking to them at all shows me that I myself have changed. I'm far more welcoming. I've noticed a trend in these conversations, where people mention that they admire how I composed myself in high school. I always managed to stay on the surface of things, never getting bogged down by the mundane dramatics of adolescence. Many people tell me this because they feel that they can relate. They tell me this as if they seem to know now where I was coming from. A lot of them I know little but enough to know that they are in denial. They do see where I was coming from, and I think that some of them do finally see the futility of it. A lot of these people have been the same girls with the croutons back in the 7th grade. What I find sad, is that they, like most, have fought their individuality their entire lives.
Maybe at the time my lack of concern for social propriety, and intolerance for injustice made me seem a little ridiculous. But even though authenticity is so hard to come by, I know that everyone is ridiculous. And the extent of their ridiculousness is just muted by their own realization of it. I've become aware of my own ridiculousness. I chose to dwell in it rather than succumbing to self victimization and many other personality flaws. I feel like I'm glorifying myself here, and I don't mean to. But I am proud, and I am thankful that I was blessed with some sort of awareness at a young age. Such realizations tend to be far more difficult to come to terms with in later years. Now I see the humor in it all, practicing walking and talking, and the girls starving themselves out of shame. I could have become that, but I didn't. I wouldn't find conformity so amusing if I wouldn't have given up on it long ago. But that is just me, it is everyone else that I'm worried about now. All the other girls and people who have denied themselves of...themselves for so long, even if they see the futility of it, they've spent their entire lives living through it. Is it too late for them to break free?
Dostoyevsky's truth that I believe we share, lies in this line, "I could join in their laughter - not exactly at myself, but through affection for them, if I did not feel so sad as I look at them."