Day 270: Ridiculous
Looking at how I had first absorbed the word ‘ridiculous’: there is a memory in which I came across it written in straggling handwriting like a piece of graffiti on the white space between the rose and thorn pattern of the wallpaper of my parents’ bedroom. Seeing this now, I wonder if I had not confused a memory of a real event with the memory of a dream event, and yet either way the point that was recorded/stored was a fear experience in my relationship to this word. Perhaps what had happened was that I had heard the word used in a judgmental tonality, and had taken this personally, and had taken note of this: not to be ‘ridiculous’.
Certainly to me, within this word, appearing as graffiti written across the rose and thorn wallpaper pattern, there was a sense of being out of order, and as the word written in a straggling scrawl it seemed to contain, consist of a kind of otherness that was not connected to accepted order, it had a kind of life that was like a centipede or wire-worm that crept across the surface of the wall without regard to the grid-work of the pictures printed onto it. In this way, there was to me a sense of alien life within this word, and the judgmental tones within it gave me pause, having this serious quality, of fear of who I am or might be as it – where I had then made a note to remember this.
Something about ‘different’ is in its nature, undefined – it can be related to other things in the sense of ‘not being like them’ – but in itself, it has no quality. This is like the ‘different’ within emergent self, where who I am is like a constant discovery in expression, that does not emerge according to the grids and definitions of a systematic social world; in terms of that, it does not compute.
As I open up this point, I see those episodes of being ‘non sequitur’ in social situations, where I have been kind of dismayed to discover that my understanding of the conversation has not been following in line, and in judging myself for this, have not made space for myself to clarify the connections that I made, or to check with others on their meanings, but have instead gone into and as an emotional experience as a glitch in the smooth running of the conversation.
It was at that glitch-point that I learned at school that that puzzlement I caused could easily spark a contagious group reaction of ridicule, in which the serious discussion of a point had been immediately abandoned for a release of laughter or mockery at my expense; the subject had become instead turned toward the perceived nature of my being, and I felt trivialized, hurt, dishonored, expendable, undermined, inferior, attacked – in short, as all of the intentions that in my mind I perceived in the words and tones and pointing fingers of the group.
And so it was that I evolved a fear of ridicule, and so it was that in that fear, I created conditions for more of it – it was in the fear of this experience that I created for myself a mask through which to face/not face the world, an appearance as a censored version of myself, not showing things that I have thought in my mind might be ridiculed, and not for example asking questions in a conversation that in common sense might be asked, not pressing a point for fear of exposure of another that had a starting-point in fear of exposure of myself – in the acceptance of this fear, I had created for myself a life in which everyday communication had become apparently riddled with traps and pit-falls, and in reality had become ineffective and inadequate.
The common sense within all of this – that was entirely absent – and lay within a question that at the time, I could not ask myself – which was, who am I really self-honestly within all this? – Is it really so that I am compelled to feel these things? – How is it that I have chosen to put this ‘I am’ within the sovereignty of my self next to and as ‘being ridiculed’? How can I possibly within myself be ridiculed, except by my consent?
Considering this, what of “mockery at my expense”? What is my actual ‘expense’? This is where the ‘naming of the game’ begins; because obviously within this there is some kind of a transaction – an expense and a pay-off. The blame game – this is where I hold others responsible for the way that I feel – I hold that they ‘made’ me feel that way, ‘I am’ as the victim, and the tighter I keep a grip on this, the less likely I am to ask myself a question that might reveal to me my own assent to this, my complicity within this.
Implicit in the authority that I have given to ‘them’ is the ‘right’ to define me, the responsibility to understand me, the power to accept or to reject me, the power to cause the very experience of who I am within me – all of this is my expense, and it is very costly, it has costed me my very means of self stability, it has costed me my self respect, it has costed me my very means to access my own reality. What else has it costed me? That accepting all of this, that I feel bad, I feel sad, I feel angry, I feel insecure, I feel afraid and vulnerable, I feel attacked, I feel outnumbered, I feel wronged, I feel like shit, like any form of shit that can be thrown at me. And the pay-off? That in being the victim, that therefore I am right? And justifying this righteousness, I then feel better? That in the end I will come out on top as the winner?
And with this holding on to blame – my grip on it becomes more desperate, as my responsibilities for this self abuse pile up and up, and then I come to this, that ‘responsibility’ itself is something bad, something to be feared, denied, no matter what. Such terrible mutations of the self within the consciousness, where one and equal with the judgments that I have exerted on those around me, equally I fear to be and to become the target of such rage.
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