Post Awakening

I really love this passage from Atlas Shrugged. Not so much as a feminist, just as an awe-struck reader.

“‘What I feel for you is contempt. But it’s nothing, compared to the contempt I feel for myself. I don’t love you. I’ve never loved anyone. I wanted you from the first moment I saw you. I wanted you as one wants a whore – for the same reason and purpose. I spent two years damning myself, because I thought you were above a desire of this kind. You’re not. You’re as vile an animal as I am. I should loathe my discovering it. I don’t. Yesterday, I would have killed anyone who’d tell me that you were capable of doing what I’ve had you do. Today, I would give my life not to let it be otherwise. Not to have you be anything but the bitch you are. All the greatness that I saw in you – I would not take it in exchange for the obscenity of your talent at an animal’s sensation of pleasure. We were two great beings, you and I, proud of our strength, weren’t we? Well this is all that’s left of us – and I want no self-deception about it.’

He spoke slowly, as if lashing himself with his words. There was no sound of emotion in his voice, only the lifeless pull of effort; it was not the tone of a man’s willingness to speak, but the ugly, tortured sound of duty.

‘I held it as my honor that I would never need anyone. I need you. It had been my pride that I had always acted on my conviction. I’ve given in to desire which I despise. It is a desire that has reduced my mind, my will, my being, my power to exist into an abject dependence upon you – upon your body, your hands, your mouth, and the few seconds of convulsion of your muscles… I’m going to have you at the price of more than myself: at the price of my self-esteem – and I want you to know it. I want no pretense about love, value, loyalty or respect. I want no shred of honor left to us, to hide behind. I’ve never begged for mercy. I’ve chosen to do this – and I’ll take all the consequences, including the full recognition of my choice. It’s depravity – and I accept it as such – and there is no height of virtue that I wouldn’t give up for it. Now if you wish to slap my face, go ahead. I wish you would.’

She had listened, sitting up straight, holding the blanket clutched at her throat to cover her body. At first, he had seen her eyes growing dark with incredulous shock. Then it seemed to him that she was listening with greater attentiveness, but seeing more than his face, even though her eyes were fixed on his. She looked as if she were studying intently some revelation that had never confronted her before. He felt as if some ray of light were growing stronger on his face, because he saw its reflection on hers, as she watched him – he saw the shock vanishing, then the wonder – he saw her face being smoothed into a strange serenity that seemed quiet and glittering at once.

When he stopped, she burst out laughing.

The shock to him was that he heard no anger in her laughter. She laughed simply, easily, in joyous amusement, in release, not as one laughs at the solution of a problem, but at the discovery that no problem had ever existed.

She threw the blanket off with a stressed, deliberate sweep of her arm. She stood up. She saw her clothes on the floor and kicked them aside. She stood facing him, naked. She said:

“I want you, Hank. I’m much more of an animal than you think. I wanted you from the first moment I saw you-and the only thing I’m ashamed of is that I did not know it. I did not know why, for two years, the brightest moments I found were the ones in your office, where I could lift my head to look up at you. I did not know the nature of what I felt in your presence, nor the reason. I know it now. That is all I want, Hank. I want you in my bed-and you are free of me for all the rest of your time. There’s nothing you’ll have to pretend – don’t think of me, don’t feel, don’t care – I do not want your mind, your will, your being or your soul, so long as it’s to me that you will come for that lowest one of your desires. I am an animal who wants nothing but that sensation of pleasure which you despise – but I want it from you. You’d give up any height of virtue for it, while I – I haven’t any to give up. There’s none I seek or wish to reach. I am so low that I would exchange the greatest sight of beauty in the world for the sight of your figure in the cab of a railroad engine. And seeing it, I would not be able to see it indifferently. You don’t have to fear that you’re now dependent upon me. It’s I who will depend on any whim of yours. You’ll have me any time you wish, anywhere, on any terms. Did you call it the obscenity of my talent? It’s such that it gives you a safer hold on me than on any other property you own. You may dispose of me as you please – I’m not afraid to admit it – I have nothing to protect from you and nothing to reserve. You think that this is a threat to your achievement, but it is not to mine. I will sit at my desk, and work, and when the things around me get hard to bear, I will think that for my reward I will be in your bed that night. Did you call it depravity? I am much more depraved than you are: you hold it as your guilt, and I – as my pride. I’m more proud of it than of anything I’ve done, more proud than of building the Line. If I’m asked to name my proudest attainment, I will say: I have slept with Hank Rearden. I had earned it.’”

- Ayn Rand, Atlas Shrugged

I think it’s about time to post a follow-up on that last hope-crushing post I wrote in the hospital. Jessie’s post is one way of digesting all the negativity and hopelessness I laid down on the page, but I’m still having some trouble with my own takeaways from my writing that night.

What it comes down to is, like Whitman, I’m full of contradictions. Not to sound forcedly quirky or unique, but just as a downright fact - I try to hold steadfast to a holistic set of values and beliefs when in all honesty I traverse my own ideologies on a regular basis. In fact, I’m now coming to realize that the majority of my feminist-centric posts attempt to reconcile my essential discrepancies, and most usually end with the lamentation, “well, I guess it’s okay not to be totally consistent in my beliefs, because it’s too hard and unrealistic to act otherwise.” I’ve mentioned how I listen to offensive music despite condemning my friends for organically reciting similar sentiments. I also claim disgust at my parents’ materialism, although I let them buy me nice things, and even buy them myself sometimes. I lecture my peers about destroying the environment, yet I often don’t recycle and leave the lights on in my room just like them. My biggest problem with most boys in my life are their sexist jokes, yet I shamefully laugh sometimes. The list continues, and I’m not writing here to forgive myself, but to document. These contradictions aren’t redeemable or justified, they just are. They are a part of me.

The main contradiction I want to focus on has kind of come to consume me lately. It has to do with my incongruous subscriptions to Nihilism and Optimism.

On a day to day basis, I totally agree with the “let it roll” and be positive motto. Brush off the stress, the anxiety, the pessimism. If we step back in fear after every tide of unfavorable circumstances, we’ll never be able to wade into the warmth of the upsides of reality: the core-warming comfort of a dad’s remedial hug, a new puppy’s nuzzling into the crook of my elbow, a long-awaited reunion with my two best friends. Even though these blissful experiences all came (or will come) out of life changes I cursed (the death of a grandparent, having to give away a family dog, separating from friends in ever-widening intervals), all in all I’ve moved on and paid attention to the positives that I know always cling to the underbelly of tragedy. Because to me, life is too valuable to spend wallowing. My happiness is one of my favorite parts of myself, and I would never want to abandon it for too long because of some seemingly insurmountable obstacle.

However, for me that relentless optimism only applies to my surface, convenience-based beliefs. I “live life to the fullest,” but when I really think about it, I’m not sure why…does it really matter anyways? At the base level, I truly think I’m a Nihilist. I definitely wouldn’t take my faith in the creed so far as to kill myself, like many Nihilists do, but I agree with the fundamental posit that life is meaningless. Sorry Jess, but it’s really hard for me to look beyond my pixel of a life and not feel utterly insignificant. It’s not that I won’t be able to accomplish anything in my 80-sum years, it’s that I won’t be able to accomplish anything that matters. No one can. It’s not a statement of inadequacy or disability, it’s just that I really don’t think any physical or social change in our world could possibly equate to some sort of big-picture meaning or purpose. We live and we die, and it’s more pleasant to think that it’s for a reason, but honestly, I’m not convinced.

Now, when I was waiting for Gracie I definitely took this belief to the extreme end…no purpose = no point in doing anything. The only comfort in the post came at the end, when I said that acknowledging and acting like our lives are purposeless is not going to give them any more purpose, it will just be more fucking depressing. I still agree with this now, and it does keep me from feeling guilty about striving for success, but either way, this thought doesn’t write off the fact that nothing I do will erase my life’s meaninglessness. It permeates throughout my reality, and although it’s easy to ignore when I’m convincing myself to stay happy, it lingers like smoke, shadowing every positive word I utter. “Cheer up” is always silently echoed with “It’s not worth the effort, nothing matters.”

So that’s why I’m so torn. Deep down I know that my life has no large-scale meaning, but I want to live like it does because it’s easier that way, and not doing so wouldn’t save me any karma points or score me a better body in my next life. I live optimistically, putting so much effort into my objective to fight negativity, fight stress, fight purposelessness. But, sadly, purposelessness is the only thing I’m sure of. 

I’m not going to justify and forgive myself for this one, my contentious beliefs will just have to keep fighting in a battle of the wits interminably, or until one wins. For now, I just have to settle for imperfection and allow my parasitic flaw to keep sucking at my frustrated left-brain. I am a living, thinking, preaching,

contradiction.

Gracie just had a seizure.

Getting the phone call, getting driven to the hospital by a cop, sitting here silently while the TV mumbles about the next episode of the Bachelorette. This isn’t reality.

I was supposed to be in my room, listening to the rest of the Girl Talk song I had chosen to blast, celebrating my last final. Moments like these shove me back into the pessimism I’m usually too strong for. The Nihilism I so despise. Moments like these constitutionally defeat me. Who the fuck cares about a final exam or an unpacked box when your friend has momentarily unhinged from this world?

Friend. I don’t know what that is anymore. I hate myself for letting go of my relationship with Gracie, but I hate myself for letting this emergency cloud my perception of what our relationship really was. I feel like one of those stuffed animals that got plucked by the ominous crane claw. Just me, plunging into limbo. I don’t know where I fit in anymore, the newness and isolation is making me question everything. Even the point of writing in a fucking blog.

Who cares about eradicating social injustice? Who cares about feminism? What is change when we’re all just specks of dust, waiting to settle into the floorboards and be forgotten?

I’m so overcome by defeat I don’t even know where to start with my sickening thoughts.

None of our friends came. I wouldn’t have either if I still had finals like they do. I want to make some crack about priorities, but I’m beyond the point of liberal, naïve, big-picture criticism. Meaninglessness has drowned me to the point that I don’t even see the purpose in our friends having come to the hospital. What does it prove? That they love her? That they would expect the same from her if they were in the hospital? That the dissolving bonds we’re weakly connected by are just as strong as they used to be?

NOTHING MATTERS.

I’m not being overdramatic. I know that tomorrow I’ll look back on this post and dismiss it as an emotional outpouring, an adrenaline-fueled, unfounded rant. It’s not a rant. If it takes a seizure or a death or a fucking natural disaster to remind us of our lack of significance, so be it, but I’m not being delusional. This loss of innocence won’t be permanent, but it’s sincere and valid.

I will continue to fill my life with possessions and accolades, until I am too old to accumulate any more. Then I will die, and whatever dents I made will only microscopically contribute to world my great great grandkids live in, that is if I make any dents at all. 

We prefer to forget this truth, because a life saturated with purposelessness isn’t made any more purposeful if we acknowledge that it doesn’t matter. Insignificance isn’t mitigated by awareness, it’s just more fucking depressing.

I don’t know where to go from here.

“He’s kind of an asshole but he’s nice to me.”

This is practically the montra of the female student population at Duke. Why do we put up with this? Guys ignoring texts, walking by without acknowledging us, getting weirded out by emotional attachment….we’ve accepted it as normal but it’s not okay. We’re all part of this socially conditioned institution that teaches us what’s expected for our gender - girls are the needy ones, guys are stoic. If we all just dropped the performance, wouldn’t we be happier?

The problem is, no one wants to be the first. I have tried to “stop playing to the game,” to text guys when I feel like it and quit playing hard to get. And even though I’m SURE this is what everyone wants - to drop the scripts, say what we feel and get ANSWERS - I am castigated for my social transgressions. Guys take my transparency as a plea for long-term commitment, they think I’m being easy or needy instead of just plain honest. Then, they move on to the next girl that waits three hours instead of one when responding to their booty calls.

I’m sick of feeling like it’s my fault. Like I’m unwanted, undesirable, mediocre. Even if these emotions are only fleeting, even if I always end up reminding myself of my value and restoring my self esteem, it’s still not okay. I shouldn’t have to feel like that even for a moment. I should be the one who gets to choose, instead of waiting around to see which guy likes me enough to meet up a second or third time. I deserve authority over my own self-worth, and I’m sick of having to convince myself of my value all the time. Guys at Duke need to wise up. I’m not the problem, they are.