“There are only two mistakes one can make along the road to truth; not going all the way, and not starting.” ~Buddha
Some days are a struggle. I can be singular in my focus and completely divorced from reality. I mess up a lot. I don’t doubt my abilities, but I do doubt my effort . . . which means the blame for most things falls squarely on my own shoulders. Except late 2016. That was not on me.
Sharing my struggles is something I’ve always had a hard time with. I’m the type of person to suppress my feelings on a range of topics. Like, “what do you think about my new boyfriend” and “did you like my act?” (Things I will never suppress my feelings about: 1. “Should I adopt this cat?” 2. “Should we order more tacos?” 3. “Do you want coffee with that?”)
I’ve never felt truly secure with my identity. I studied political psychology in college and it tells me that I am “very high in cognitive complexity.” That means I see everything in shades of grey. Sounds fancy until all decisions become either too complex to make or basically inconsequential because you cannot possibly control for all the potential outcomes so better to leave it to God, who is either dead or an amalgam or in all of us or has returned to earth in the form of my cat Penny. Everyone is on a spectrum and everyone is fluid. Everyone is both natured and nurtured. Penny knows this.
This week has been filled with more struggles than most, so like a good millennial (I’m not a millennial), I posted the following in my instastory:
Devastating, right? (I spent an entire month of using cuticle oil and taking biotin gummies every night, reinforced with a habit tracking app, only to be foiled by the center console of my car.) I promptly received a reply from a friend whom I actually met once. It only said “10% external and 90% internal.” He’s a buddha, that one. (Also, right on target.)
So whatever your struggle this week, be it getting out of bed or nailing your double helix (that’s a trick for all of you non-trapeze, folks), just remember the wise words of a person that Jessica kind of knows and say to yourself . . . “fuck that guy.”