Tag: anxiety

Keep Calm and Carry On

Today, we know that poster as a, well, poster, of quintessential Britishness. It is simply another of our twenty-first century truisms, not unlike checking oneself before wrecking oneself. Yet this phrase has a far darker history.

In 1940, war hysteria in the British Isles was at its zenith. To the surprise of everyone, Nazi forces had overcome the Maginot line and steamrolled into Paris. British expeditionary forces at Dunkirk had faced large casualties, and been forced to abandon most of their equipment during the hastily organized evacuation. In Great Britain itself, the Home Guard had been activated, and overeager ministers began arming them with pikes and other medieval weapons [10]. For many, a German invasion of the home isles was deemed imminent.

Impelled by public fear and worried politicians, the British government began drawing up its contingency plans for its last stand on the British Isles. Few military strategists honestly believed that the German invasion would materialize. Allied intelligence made it clear that the Germans did not possess an invasion fleet, nor the necessary manpower, support aircraft, and logistical capacity to sustain more than a few minor probing raids [5]. Then again, few had expected France to fall so quickly. And given the Nazi’s track record so far, no one was willing to take chances [3].

Signposts were removed across the country to confuse invading forces. Evacuation plans for key government officials and the royal family were drawn up. Potential landing sites for a seaborne invasion were identified, and marked for saturation with every chemical weapon in the British stockpile. So far the threat of mutually assured destruction has prevented the large scale use of chemical weapons as seen in WWI. However, if an invasion of the homelands had begun, all bets would be off. Anti-invasion plans call for the massive use of chemical weapons against invading forces, and both chemical and biological weapons against German cities, intended to depopulate and render much of Europe uninhabitable [4][7][8].

Strategists studying prior German attacks, in particular the combined arms shock tactics which allowed Nazi forces to overcome superior numbers and fortifications, become convinced that the successful defence of the realm is dependent on avoiding confusion and stampedes of refugees from the civilian population, as seen in France and the Low Countries. To this end, the Ministry of Information is tasked with suppressing panic and ensuring that civilians are compliant with government and military instructions. Official pamphlets reiterate that citizens must not evacuate unless and until instructed to do so.

IF THE GERMANS COME […] YOU MUST REMAIN WHERE YOU ARE. THE ORDER IS “STAY PUT”. […] BE READY TO HELP THE MILITARY IN ANY WAY. […] THINK BEFORE YOU ACT. BUT THINK ALWAYS OF YOUR COUNTRY BEFORE YOU THINK OF YOURSELF. [9]

Yet some remained worried that this message would get lost in the confusion on invasion day. People would be scared, and perhaps need to be reminded. “[T]he British public were suspicious of lofty sentiment and reasoned argument. […] Of necessity, the wording and design had to be simple, for prompt reproduction and quick absorption.”[1]. So plans were made to make sure that the message is unmistakable and omnipresent. Instead of a long, logical pamphlet, a simple, clear message in a visually distinctive manner. The message, a mere five words, captures the entire spirit of the British home front in a single poster.

KEEP CALM AND CARRY ON

The poster was never widely distributed during World War II. The Luftwaffe, believing that it was not making enough progress towards the total air supremacy that was deemed as crucial for any serious invasion, switched its strategy from targeting RAF assets, to terror bombing campaigns against British cities. Luckily for the British, who by their own assessment were two or three weeks of losses away from ceding air superiority [5], this strategy, though it inflicted more civilian casualties, eased pressure on the RAF and military infrastructure enough to recover. Moreover, as the British people began to adapt to “the Blitz”, allied resolve strengthened rather than shattered.

German invasion never materialized. And as air raids became more a fact of life, and hence less terrifying and disorienting to civilians, the need for a propaganda offensive to quell panic and confusion subsided. As the RAF recovered, and particularly as German offensive forces began to shift to the new Soviet front, fears of a British collapse subsided. Most of the prepared “Keep Calm” posters were gradually recycled as part of the paper shortage.

With perfect historical retrospect, it is easy to recognize the fact that a large scale German invasion and occupation of the British Isles would have been exceedingly unlikely, and victory against an entrenched and organized British resistance would have been nigh impossible. The British government was on point when it stated that the key to victory against an invasion was level-headedness. Given popular reaction to the rediscovered copies of the “Keep Calm” design, it also seems that they were on the mark there.

The poster and the phrase it immortalized have long since become decoupled from its historical context. Yet not, interestingly, the essence it sought to convey. It is telling that many of the new appropriations of the phrase, as seen by a targeted image search, have to do with zombies, or other staples of the post-apocalyptic genre. In its original design, the poster adorns places where anxiety is commonplace, such as workplaces and dorm rooms, and has become go-to advice for those under stressful situations.

This last week in particular has been something of a roller coaster for me. I feel characteristically anxious about the future, and yet at the same time lack sufficient information to make a workable action plan to see me through these troubling times. At a doctor’s appointment, I was asked what my plan was for the near future. With no other option, I picked a response which has served both myself and my forebears well during dark hours: Keep Calm and Carry On.

Works Consulted

1) “Undergraduate Dissertation – WWII Poster Designs, 1997.” Drbexl.co.uk. N.p., 23 Jan. 2016. Web. 11 May 2017. <http://drbexl.co.uk/1997/07/11/undergraduate-dissertation-1997/>.

2) “Dunkirk rescue is over – Churchill defiant.” BBC News. British Broadcasting Corporation, 04 June 1940. Web. 11 May 2017. <http://news.bbc.co.uk/onthisday/hi/dates/stories/june/4/newsid_3500000/3500865.stm>.

3) Inman, Richard. “Fighting for Britain.” Wolverhampton History – Wolverhampton History. Wolverhampton City Council, 13 Dec. 2005. Web. 11 May 2017. <http://www.wolverhamptonhistory.org.uk/people/at_war/ww2/fighting3>.

4) Bellamy, Christopher. “Sixty secret mustard gas sites uncovered.” The Independent. Independent Digital News and Media, 03 June 1996. Web. 11 May 2017. <http://www.independent.co.uk/news/sixty-secret-mustard-gas-sites-uncovered-1335343.html>.

5) “Invasion Imminent.” Invasion Imminent – Suffolk Anti-invasion defences. N.p., n.d. Web. 11 May 2017. <http://pillboxes-suffolk.webeden.co.uk/invasion-imminent/4553642028>.

6) “Large bomb found at ex-Navy base.” BBC News. British Broadcasting Corporation, 22 Apr. 2006. Web. 11 May 2017. <http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/uk_news/england/hampshire/4934102.stm>.

7) Ministry of Information. CIVIL DEFENCE – BRITAIN’S WARTIME DEFENCES, 1940. Digital image. Imperial War Museums. n.d. Web. 11 May 2017. <http://www.iwm.org.uk/collections/item/object/205019014>.

8) “Living with anthrax island.” BBC News. British Broadcasting Corporation, 08 Nov. 2001. Web. 11 May 2017. <http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/uk_news/1643031.stm>.

9) Ministry of Information. If the Invader Comes. 1940. Print.

10) RAMSEY, SYED. TOOLS OF WAR;HISTORY OF WEAPONS IN MEDIEVAL TIMES. N.p.: ALPHA EDITIONS., n.d. Print.

Angry in May

I am angry today. I don’t like feeling generally angry, because it’s usually quite draining without being actually fulfilling. Yet I feel rather compelled to be angry. I know several people who feel near or on the brink of desperation because of recent events regarding healthcare in particular and politics in general. I want to help, but there seems to be increasingly little I can do. I myself am somewhat worried about the future. In the wake of all of this I feel that I have the choice between being paralyzed by fear or being motivated by anger. The latter seems like an obvious choice.

The beginning of May is a time of a number of small holidays. April 30th marks the real end of the end of World War II, with the suicides of Hitler and company in Berlin and the transfer of governmental power to Reichpräsident (formerly admiral) Karl Dönitz, who would authorize the unconditional surrender of Nazi Germany on May 7th, known as VE Day in the west, and celebrated as Victory Day in the now-former soviet bloc on May 8th, due to the time difference between London and Moscow (and a few mishaps regarding paperwork and general distrust of the Soviets). Depending on where you live, this is either interesting trivia, or a very big deal.

Victory Day in Russia is one of the really big political occasions and is celebrated with an accordingly large show of military force. These parades are a chance for Russia to show off all the fancy toys that it will use to annihilate any future such invaders, for ordinary people to honor those they lost during the war, for old people and leftists to pine nostalgically for the halcyon days when the Soviet Union was strong and whippersnappers knew their place, and for western intelligence organizations to update their assessments on Russian military hardware. This last one has caused problems in the past, as miscounts to the number of bombers and missile launchers (the soviets were cycling them to up their numbers) led to the impression that a bomber and later missile gap existed between the Soviets and the US for most of the Cold War.

Speaking of bombastic parades, the First of May is either known as an occasion for maypole dancing, or for massive demonstrations with masses of red flags. Prior to the 1800s, May Day was something of a spring festival, likely originally associated with the Roman festival for the goddess of flowers, Flora, which took place on the first official day of summer. As Roman paganism fell out of fashion, the festival became a more secular celebration of springtime.

In 1904, the Sixth Conference of the Second Internationale declared that the first of May would be a day of protest for labor organizations to demonstrate, in memory of the May 4th, 1886 Haymarket Affair in Chicago. Subsequently, May Day became something of a major event for labor and workers’ rights groups. This was solidified after the formation of the Soviet Union (they seem to be a recurring element here), which, as a self-styled “workers’ state”, made May Day celebrations a big deal within its borders, and used the occasion to further sympathetic causes abroad.

This caused something of a feedback look, as governments taken in by anti-communist hysteria sought to either suppress (and thus, in many ways, legitimize) May Day demonstrations, or to control such demonstrations by making them official. Thus, in many countries, 1st May is celebrated as Labour Day (generally with the ‘u’). In 1955, Pope Pius XII declared May Day to be a feast day for Saint Joseph the Worker, in counter-celebration to labor celebrations.

May the Fourth, is, of course, celebrated as Star Wars Day, for obvious reasons. Historically it has been the day that I dress up in full character costume for school. Unfortunately, this year I was too sick to actually attend school, in costume or not. I was also recently informed that in Ohio in particular, 4th May is recognized primarily as the anniversary of the Kent State Massacre during the Vietnam War. To quote the friend who explained it to me:

So today is May 4th, affectionally known by most as Star Wars Day. That is what it used to be for me until I went to Kent State. Now May 4th is a day of remembrance. Because today in 1970, the National Guard opened fire on a group of students peacefully protesting the Vietnam War and killed 4. It has become a day for the entire campus to go silent, to walk the memorial, to relect on how important it is to speak up about what you believe is wrong. Politics is not always elections. Sometimes it is holding a candle at a memorial of people killed by the government. Sometimes it is remembering and refusing to forget. Either way, it is action. That is one of the most important lessons I have learned at Kent State.

The opening days of May have for some time now been a time of year when I typically pause and reflect. Having several small holidays- that is, holidays well known enough that I am reminded of their passing, without necessarily needing to go out of my way to prepare in advance -have helped add to this. Early May is typically long enough after cold and flu season that even if I’m not back in the thick of things, I’m usually on my feet. It’s also after midterms and standardized testing, while not being yet close enough to final exams that I can feel the weight of all my unfinished work bearing down on me in full force. Early May is a lull when I can get my bearings before hunkering down for the last act of the school year and hit the ground running for summer.

So, where am I? How am I doing? How am I going to come back into school roaring?

I don’t know the answer to any of these questions. There are too many things up in the air in my life, both at the micro and macro level. I feel uncertain and a little scared. And I feel angry.

Inasmuch as I have any real self confidence and self worth, I pride myself on my intelligence. I like that I can recall off the top of my head several different holiday occasions in the space of a fortnight, and succinctly explain their historical and cultural context. I enjoy being a know-it-all. I loath the unknown, and I detest the substitution of hard facts for squishy feelings. I consider these principles integral to my identity and personal value, and find it difficult and troubling to envision any future where I do not possess these traits, or where these merits are not accepted.

Me vs. Ghost Me

My recent attempts to be a bit more proactive in planning my life have yielded an interesting unexpected result. It appears that trying to use my own My Disney Experience account in planning my part of our family vacation has unleashed a ghost version of myself that is now threatening to undo all of my carefully laid plans, steal my reservations, and wreck my family relationships.

Context: Last summer, I was at Disney World for a conference, which included a day at the park. Rather than go through the huff and puff of getting a disability pass to avoid getting trapped in lines and the medical havoc that could wreak, I opted instead to simply navigate the park with fastpasses. Doing this effectively required that I have a My Disney Experience account in order to link my conference-provided ticket and book fastpasses from my phone. So I created one. For the record, the system worked well over the course of that trip.

Fast forward to the planning for this trip. Given my historical track record with long term planning, and the notable chaos of my family’s collective schedule, it is generally my mother who takes point on the strategic end (I like to believe that I pick up the slack in tactical initiative, but that’s neither here nor there). Booking our room and acquiring our Magic Bands naturally required to put names down for each of our family members, which, evidently, spawned “ghost” accounts in the My Disney Experience system.

This is not a particularly large concern for my brother or father, both of whom are broadly nonplussed with such provincial concerns as being in the right place at the right time, at least while on vacation. For me, however, as one who has to carefully judge medication doses based on expected activity levels over the next several hours, and more generally, a perpetual worrier, being able to access and, if necessary, change my plans on the fly is rather crucial. In the case of Disney, this means having my own account rather than my “ghost” be listed for all pertinent reservations and such.

The solution is clear: I must hunt down my ghostly doppelgänger and eliminate him. The problem is that doing so would cancel all of the current reservations. So before killing my ghost, I first have to steal his reservations. As a side note: It occurs to me belatedly that this dilemma would make an interesting and worthwhile premise for a sci-fi thriller set in a dystopia where the government uses digital wearable technology to track and control its population.

All of this has served as an amusing distraction from the latest sources of distress in my life, namely: Having to sequester myself in my home and attend meetings with the school administrators by telephone because of a whooping cough outbreak, the escalating raids against immigrant groups in my community, neo-fascist graffiti at my school, and having to see people I despise be successful in ways that I never could. Obviously, not all of these are equal. But they all contribute to a general feeling that I have been under siege of late.

While reasonable people can disagree over whether the current problems I face are truly new, they certainly seem to have taken on a new urgency. Certainly this is the first time since I arrived back in the United States that immigrant communities in my local community have been subject to ICE raids. Although this is not the first time that my school has experienced fascist graffiti, it is the largest such incident. The political situation, which was previously an abstract thing which was occasionally remarked upon during conversation has become far more tangible. I can see the results in the streets and in my communications with my friends as clearly as I can see the weather.

I might have been able to move past these incidents and focus on other areas of my life, except that other areas of my life have also come under pressure, albeit for different reasons. The school nurse’s office recently disclosed that there has been at least one confirmed case of Whooping Cough. As I have written about previously, this kind of outbreak is a major concern for me, and means in practice that I cannot put myself at risk by going into school until this is resolved. Inconveniently, this announcement came only days before I was due to have an important meeting with school administrators (something which is nerve wracking at the best of times, and day-ruining at others). The nature of the meeting meant that it could not be postponed, and so had to be conducted by telephone.

At the same time, events in my personal life have conspired to force me to confront an uncomfortable truth: People I despise on a personal level are currently more successful and happier than me. I have a strong sense of justice, and so seeing people whom I know have put me and others down in the past be rewarded, while I myself yet struggle to achieve my goals, is quite painful. I recognize that this is petty, but it feels like a very personal example of what seems, from where I stand, to be an acutely distressing trend: The people I consider my adversaries are ahead and in control. Policies I abhor and regard as destructive to the ideals and people I hold dear are advancing. Fear and anger are beating out hope and friendship, and allowing evil and darkness to rise.

Ghost me is winning. He has wreaked havoc in all areas of my life, so that I feel surrounded and horrifically outmatched. He has led me to believe that I am hated and unwanted by all. He has caused fissures in my self-image, making me question whether I can really claim to stand for the weak if I’m not willing to throw myself into every skirmish. He has made me doubt whether, if these people whom I consider misguided and immoral are being so successful and happy, that perhaps it is I who is the immoral one.

These are, of course, traps. Ghost me, like real me, is familiar with the Art of War, and knows that the best way to win a fight is to do so without actual physical combat. And because he knows me; because he is me, and because I am my own worst enemy, he knows how best to set up a trap that I can hardly resist walking into. He tries to convince me to squander my resources and my endurance fighting battles that are already lost. He tries to poke me everywhere at once to disorient me and make me doubt my own senses. Worst of all, he tries to set me up to question myself, making me doubt myself and why I fight, and making me want to simply capitulate.

Not likely.

What ghost me seems to forget is that I am among the most relentlessly stubborn people either of us know. I have fought continuously for a majority of my life now to survive against the odds, and against the wishes of certain aspects of my biology. And I will continue fighting, if necessary for years, if necessary, alone. I am, however, not alone. And if I feel surrounded, then ghost me is not only surrounded, but outnumbered.

Revisiting the Future

A little less than three years ago I was on a seven day cruise on the Disney Fantasy. It was New Year’s Eve, and our ship had just passed into the Bermuda Triangle. The live show that evening featured the tribulations of a trio of teenagers coming to grips with the fact that they could no longer reasonably claim to be mere children, and would soon have to enter the dreaded “real world”. It struck a chord with me, even though I was still a couple years younger than the protagonists, and graduation seemed far off. Still, it was the first time that graduation, and the world beyond it, truly struck me a genuine, personally relevant concern.

Despite little of immediate, lasting consequence occurring on that particular cruise, I have nonetheless come to consider it something of a turning point in my life. About this same time, it began to become undeniably apparent to all interested parties that the school’s strategy towards my disability of masterly inactivity would most likely not be sufficient to assure my timely graduation. At the same time, I began to solidify my own doubts that the school administration would prove capable of overcoming its bureaucratic inertia. In short, it became clear that following the “normal” path would not end with my triumphant graduation and ascension to the most prestigious colleges with a full scholarship, etcetera, etcetera, as I had previously planned.

Shortly after we returned home, I began to receive fliers from various academic institutions. I chuckled at this, feeling appropriately flattered that they would deign to waste the cost of postage on one such as myself, yet nevertheless regarding their outreach as premature, and not of genuine concern. After all, with the delays which the school had made in processing various transfer credits from my online classes, it was suddenly unclear what my graduating year ought to be listed as. How could I give serious consideration to such far-off problems when I could not even confirm my graduating date?

My eighteenth birthday, which I had previously imagined would mark the milestone of my victorious conquest over public education, and the commencement of my proud campaign into the “real world”, was spent, like so many other days of my life thus far, in a hospital bed, struggling for survival. Although I knew that such an occasion ought to merit some manner of recognition and self reflection, given my circumstances, I was too preoccupied with the difficult task of evading imminent death to give much thought to the future. I promised myself, as indeed my parents promised me, that once I had recovered, and these temporary troubles with my schoolwork had been dealt with once and for all, that we would have a grand celebration for my birthday. Nothing came of this promise; indeed, I have not had a proper birthday party with a guest list and presents since.

The last day of my fourth year of high school was bittersweet, to put it mildly. On the one hand, summer meant a welcome reprieve from the daily stress of regular classes (by this point, most of my actual academic progress was being accomplished at home with the assistance of a tutor, and this would not change), and a temporary truce between myself and the administrators who, during the school year, sought to harass me daily over my apparent lack of progress. On the other hand, it was the last day I would see any of the friends I had made in school. They, unlike myself, had been able to keep their heads down, and stick to the normal path. They had graduated. All of them were college bound, and excited about it. Despite my efforts to be empathetic, I could not bring myself to subject myself to attending the graduation ceremony that I could not participate in.

Shorty before that day, I had resigned myself to the fact that I was going to remain in high school for an indeterminate period. Neither I nor the administration could come up with an estimate for my completion, owing to missing or misplaced records on their part. Guesses ranged from three months to four years. With no new data, and a history of disappointment, I gave up on guessing. With no graduation date, I could not make plans for college. With no plans, I had nothing to look forward to. Working mainly from home rather than subjecting myself to the degradation of school, the days and weeks began to meld together. With no real future to look forward to, I gave up on the future altogether.

This may sound like a purgatorial dystopia. And indeed, it was. I joked about this much with my friends over text messages. Yet I would be remiss if I didn’t last say that it was also quite liberating. With no change from day to day, I could stop worrying about anything beyond the present moment. After all, I had total job security. There was always plenty of schoolwork to ensure that I never had energy to make use of any free time I might have. There was no petty social drama; no conflict of any kind. So long as I had no expectations, I could never be disappointed. It was a dystopia alright, and a perfectly executed one at that.

Yet, within the last two weeks, something has changed. Last week, my special education case manager contacted me regarding some manner of questionnaire meant for outgoing seniors. My natural response was and remains to ignore it. If it is important enough, they will get it to me another way, and if it isn’t, I’ve just saved myself a great deal of effort. Still, this bears relevance if for no other reason then because it is the first time which they have recognized me as a senior, and on track to graduate. The same week, I received a mass email from the guidance department (where they got my address in order to spam me remains a mystery) regarding generic scholarship offers. Suddenly, it seems, my tranquil little dystopia is under siege from the “real world”.

After years of doing my utmost to avoid imagining a future outside of a weather forecast, I am suddenly being made to explain my life plans. A younger, pre-cruise version of myself would be excited. Things are back on track. Things are getting back to normal. Except, things can never go quite back to normal. Trying to relive past fantasies is a fool’s errand, and trying to navigate the coming future by the plans a different me made many years ago, or by whatever cookie-cutter claptrap the administration may find in their self-righteous self-help books, will only end with me facing the same problems as now five years from now.

Imagining a realistic future which is completely independent from both the administration and my own childhood fantasies is both difficult and daunting. Indeed, given the nature of my disabilities, and the apparent track record of my forecasting abilities, it begs the question whether a future plan which extends beyond my next quarterly hospital visit is even knowable in any meaningful capacity. Given that I cannot say with any absolute confidence that I will even still be alive in five years, does it really make sense to speculate on what a life for me might look like?

Coincidentally, on that same cruise which seems simultaneously so recent and so distant from me, I saw for the first time the filmic adaptation of “Into the Woods”. While I shall endeavor to avoid spoilers, suffice it to say that the theme of planning for the future, and having said plans go awry does come up. Indeed, one of the songs, arguably my favorite of the lot, focuses on the dilemma faced by one of the protagonists when pressed into a snap decision which has the potential to radically affect her entire future. The conclusion she reaches is to avoid the dichotomy altogether, and to keep her options open rather than back herself into a corner. It turns out to be the correct decision, as both alternatives collapse in the long run. This is interesting advice, which I think I shall endeavor to apply to my own like situation.

So, what can I say about my future? Well, I can say that even though I may not be absolutely confident in a specific graduation date, that I will most likely graduate from public school in the next year or so. I can say that I would like to continue my education and attend university, even if I do not yet know where and precisely how I will make attendance work, or how I will be able to apply given the problems with my transcript. I can say that I intend to travel and learn about other places, people, and cultures, as traveling and learning have had an undeniably positive impact on my life thus far. I can say that I intend to continue to write and speak about my experiences.

But perhaps most importantly, I can say that my path will not be the “normal” one, and as such, it is perfectly acceptable to not have every detail planned out. Just as I can learn without a grade, and have a positive role without having a neatly defined career, so too can I have a future without having a plan.

Facing Failure

I am in a particularly gloomy, dare I say, depressed, mood upon the eve of my writing this. Owing to the impending blizzard, United Nations Headquarters has been closed, and subsequently the events which I was to attend for the Women’s Empowerment Principles have been “postponed indefinitely”. The news reached me only minutes before I was to board the train which would have taken me into the city, where I had arranged for a hotel room overnight so as to avoid to having to travel during a blizzard.

This left me with an urgent choice: I could board the train, and spend a day trapped in a frozen city that was actively trying to dissuade people from traveling, or I could cut my losses, eat the cost of the hotel room, and return home to ride out the storm there. It probably surprises few that I chose the latter option; the option touted as the more sensible, strategically conservative, objectively correct option. Still, making this choice left me with a bitter taste in my mouth. It leaves me feeling as though I have failed.

I do not like failure.

Actually, that statement is inaccurate, or at least, misleading. I don’t merely dislike failure, in the same way that I dislike, say, sunscreen. No, I hate failure, in every sense of the word. I loathe it, detest it, and yes, I fear it.

This is not to say that I have such strong feelings toward losses. I feel this is an important distinction. Though I do have an adversity to unnecessary losses, sometimes, such sacrifices are necessary. What I hate is trying, making sacrifices, and then failing despite, or even worse, because of those efforts. The important distinction, at least in my mind, is that losses are a strategic principle, and a passing phenomenon, while failure is a state of being, whether for a few moments surrounding a particular exercise, or for a lifetime.

As one might expect, this makes me, in general, rather risk averse. Of course, this itself presents a paradox. Not taking a given risk also entails the inverse risk contained in the opportunity cost. That is to say, by not taking a given bet, you are effectively betting against it. This means that refusing to accept risks is always inherently itself a risk. So, for example, one cannot accept a zero percent chance of food poisoning without not eating altogether; and if one were to attempt to do so, they would quickly find themselves confronted by the more urgent problem of starvation.

The blizzard that closed the UN put me in a no-win situation. As a rational person, I can accept this, and act to cut my losses. Either I canceled my trip, resigned myself to staying at home, and ate the cost of my hotel reservations, or I purchased my train ticket, defied government instructions to stay home and avoid travel, put myself in danger, and spent the day trapped in a hotel room. I understand rationally why I chose as I did, and rationally, maintain that I made the correct decision. Yet I cannot escape the feeling that in choosing to abort my plans, I have failed my objective. Even if there was nothing to gain by getting on the train, I cannot suppress the feeling that my conscious choice invited some moral failing.

Some cursory research suggests that this particular feeling is not unique to myself, nor is it a new field of philosophical musings. Humans feel more emotional and moral responsibility for acts which are consciously undertaken than for merely following existing plans. This feeling is so prevalent it carries legal weight; binding contracts cannot be made by failing to decline an agreement; they require active assent. This might explain why I feel particularly upset with myself; If I had made no choice, then any perceived failure could only be an act of God, and out of my control. By making a conscious decision to cut my losses, I made that result a personal consequence, at least to my subconscious mind.

This leaves me at something of an impasse. I know why I am upset, yet can do little to console myself except to distract and reassure the nagging elements of my unconscious mind that I made the correct decision. I am left in conflict with myself, and left acutely aware of the fickleness of my own mind. While I suppose that this state of affairs is strictly preferable to feeling upset and not understanding why at all, I still cannot bring myself to feel in any meaningful way confident about myself in the present tense, particularly as these most recent reactions would seem to indicate that I might not be the single-mindedly rational being that I like to pretend that I am.

As I have indicated previously, I have very little intrinsic self confidence, at least in the manner which most people seem to expect that I ought. For whatever reason, I cannot seem to raise such self-evident feelings of self worth, and therefore, when I project such feelings, it is borne not of some internal passion, but extrinsic, statistical calculation. I base my self-assessment not on my own feelings, nor on others’ opinions, but on data and milestones. And though I feel that this generally gives me a better handle on the limits of my abilities, it also means that when I put my mind to a particular objective, and yet still fail for whatever reason, it becomes not only a momentary setback, but a point of evidence against my worth as a human being.

This can, and historically has, resulted in a mental loop whereby a temporary failure, such as a meeting which I had my aspirations set upon being cancelled by a snowstorm, leads to a general hardening of outlook, which in turn causes me to shift to the back foot, acting more conservatively, and taking fewer risky opportunities. Consequently, I wind up having fewer major victories to celebrate and reassure myself, and am instead left to reflect upon all of the opportunities which I missed. Because I was led to skip these choices by seemingly rational means, I cannot regret individual choices, but rather categorize them as mere symptoms of a general moral failing. These reflections promote further self-doubt, further strategic conservatism, and so on.

So, what can I do about it?

With the help of family and friends, I have come to realize that this is a viscous cycle that represents many of the worst and most self-destructive aspects of my personality and manner of thought. Of course, recognizing this fact consciously is the easy part. Hindsight is perfect, after all. The hard part is determining how to counter this cycle.

Historically my solution to such problems has been to throw myself into work, especially school work. This serves a dual purpose. First, if I am working hard enough, I do not have the time nor the energy to stew over my situation in more general terms. Second, it gives me a sense that I am accomplishing something. From primary through early high school, this approach has generally worked.

However, more recently, as the school has continued to demonstrate its gross incompetence in accommodating my physical disabilities, and as they have become increasingly distraught over the fact that my disability has not healed itself by magic, it has apparently occurred to the school administration that the correct way to inspire me to overcome medical impossibilities is to continually evoke shame each time my medical issues cause me to miss a deadline. Exactly what they aim to accomplish through this pestering continues to elude me. But in any case, this state of affairs means that greater effort on my part is more often scolded than rewarded. For, it seems, every time I attempt to reach out for clarification and assistance, I am subjected to a lecture on “personal responsibility”.

Because the school administration is apparently so “forward thinking”, and therefore does not believe in disability whatsoever, I am told that the fault for my failures is not, cannot, lie in my disability, but only in my personal moral failings. I am told by special education professionals that if I were truly dedicated to my academic performance, that my chronic diseases ought not have any impact on my life whatsoever. My promises that I will do my utmost given what I have to work with fall on deaf ears, because, allegedly, if I were to truly do my utmost, I would already be done on my own.

Needless to say, this experience is extremely stressful, and only deepens my sense of failure, self-hatred and anxiety. It should surprise no one that I am not terribly productive under such conditions, which only exacerbates the problem. Thus it comes to pass that throwing myself into schoolwork and attempting to prove myself wrong; to prove that I can indeed overcome opposition and be successful, only leads to more evidence that I am a failure.

I have looked, and am still looking, into various strategies to deal with this cycle moving forward. One strategy has been to write, and to post here. Another has been to give myself permission to engage in short “micro-vacations” as I call them, or “sanity-breaks” as my doctors refer to them. These short periods can last anywhere from a few hours to a few days depending on the severity of my initial state, particularly as they tend to coincide with when I am most physically fatigued*, but the important part is that they remain constrained to a specific time instead of drawing out into a general malaise. During this time, I temporarily do away with all pretense of productivity, and allow myself to engage in whatever petty amusement strikes my fancy.

*Sidenote: the overlap between physiological issues and mental symptoms is a recurring theme, making meaningful treatment for both all the more challenging. After all, is it really paranoia if your statistical chances of dying are vastly increased? The consensus thus far is that it isn’t. This is the reason why, despite having all of the symptoms, I do not technically qualify for any mental health diagnosis; because in my case, the source is obvious and completely justified.

In this respect, the fact that the same blizzard which set me on this spiral also shut down most everything in the vicinity comprises a silver lining of sorts. Obviously, there is no magic bullet for irrational feelings of failure. But perhaps that is beside the point. Perhaps the point of overcoming this feeling is not to wind up standing triumphantly atop the pile of slain emotions, but to reach a peaceful stalemate. I do not necessarily need to feel good about the fact that I could not accomplish my goals; merely be able to accept it without it destroying myself. Perhaps it might be enough to be able to calmly analyze and discuss my thoughts in writing, without necessarily having to reach a decisive conclusion.

Pyrrhic Pizza and NerdCon: Nerdfighteria

I am never quite sure what to expect when going to NerdCon, and I am always surprised. The abundance of inside jokes and references is a high entry barrier to most. Even I, who am as well versed in the popular subculture as any, still find many things that are utterly incomprehensible to me.

There is also something distinctly paradoxical about NerdCon. Allow me to elaborate. The stated purpose of this event is a celebration of the community which has made its mark by combining the constructive spontaneity of the Internet with the mild antisocial tendencies of nerdiness. Contrast this with the strictly planned, hierarchically organized nature of commercial conventions. The idea of NerdCon is a celebration of and party for introverts and the socially inept. It is an oxymoron.

The brothers Green repeatedly stated that they believed that all they had done was to set a date and location, and that we, the attendees, had made it an event. Of course, they said this from atop a massive stage, with spotlights and cameras trained on them. It was strange, and thought provoking. Yet even more strange and thought provoking was seeing these people who I recognized from the internet and television in front of and around me, not as polished symbols, but as ordinary human beings.

The night of the concert series, I managed to meet up with some people whom I had previously chatted with online. It was strange to think that they, like myself, had come from faraway locales in order to attend this event, with minimal expectations; and had congregated together to meet each other people whom they only knew based on sparse text-based interactions. We were all immediately friends, even though none of us had ever met. I was continuously self-conscious of this, since I have never had much luck with friendship. It seemed, however, that all the little details which I had anxiously obsessed over were ultimately far less important than the simple fact that I was here. We were all here, together, all else be damned.

That evening before the concert, we elected to go out for food together. Our first choice was the Cheesecake Factory attached to the shopping center connected to the convention center. We were dismayed to discover that the wait was longer than we had until the concert. After we idled around for some moments, unsure of what to do next, a man who worked at the shopping center suggested an alternative. We set out, exiting the mall and heading out into the warm rain of downtown Boston towards where we had been assured that there would be restaurants with a far shorter wait time.

The first eatery we saw which would accommodate our group was a Pizzeria Uno’s. Four out of six of us were wearing our Pizza John t-shirts, we took this as a good omen, and went in. The wait to be seated, we were told, was no shorter than that of the Cheesecake Factory. At this point, two members of our group opted to split off and head back, reckoning that if a long wait was going to be necessary in any case, that they may as well go with their first choice, and also hoping that a smaller table might be more forthcoming. The larger portion of our group inquired as the possibility of a to go order.

We were told, at first, that it would be no more than fifteen minutes. After a brief conference, we elected for a single large cheese pizza. I gave my name, and we settled in for what we expected would be a short wait.

What was fascinating about this time estimate was that it seemed to remain constant regardless of our wait. That is to say, the estimate remained precisely fifteen minutes at the time we ordered, then ten minutes later, then twenty minutes after that. In the same way that a cure for all major illness has remained ten years away for the last four decades, it seemed that our Pizza would forever be fifteen minutes from completion.

At the forty minute mark, I began to despair. It wasn’t that I was exceptionally invested in the our pizza. I hadn’t yet paid for it, and so I had nothing truly to lose. There was the matter of my medically necessitated diet, which was fairly unambiguous on the fact that I would have to eat something, but this was still of secondary concern, even though it was probably the largest actual threat at the time.

Much as I enjoy traveling when I am able, my medical situation means that I am primarily a homebody. On an average day, I interact with the same four or five people (all family and tutors) and cover an area of approximately one hundred square meters. I write approximately four thousand words (average is about one thousand) and speak about three thousand (average is about sixteen thousand), owing mainly to a complete lack of social interaction. All of my friends are either away at university, or off working in the mythical “real world”, while I am left to contend with making the square peg of my medical situation fit into the round hole of my public high school’s graduation requirements.

Being acutely aware of my own isolation and corresponding utter lack of social experience, my greatest concern during the pizza debacle was that it might negatively color the impression of me of these people whom I so desperately wanted to call my friends. I feared that because I had been the person to actually place the order and put down my name, that this resulting fiasco would be my own shame. I feared, and indeed, expected, the immediate and harsh reproach of my comrades for this unmitigated failure to provide.

The scolding never came. The pizza eventually came. I paid at once, leaving a meager tip which I considered quite merciful given the extreme wait. I kept waiting the criticism which I fully expected. I waited to be torn into. Instead, the others tore into the pizza, anxiously attempting to scarf down an appropriate number of carbohydrates in the ten minutes remaining before the concert began. There were smiles all around. The pizza was good, if late. The only complaints were against the restaurant, not myself. The others were eager to give me cash for their share, and we made it to the concert on time.

At the concert series, Jon Cozart performed his piece “YouTube Culture” decrying the personality-cult nature of many modern online communities. The image of an internet celebrity as himself making bank on a song decrying such structures seemed both startlingly ironic, and completely apropos, given my earlier thoughts on the paradoxical nature of NerdCon itself.

There was a pervasive feeling, at least among myself and those with whom I interacted, that we were experiencing something special. It was a feeling as though, by reaching a critical mass of interesting, intelligent, and thoughtful people, we had ignited some sort of chain reaction. There was optimism in a way that I haven’t really felt since the new year, and I was reminded of the great World’s Fairs of yesteryear, when the planet’s great minds would all congregate and unveil their collective vision for the future.

There were sad moments as well, such as when John Green brought up the late Esther Earl in his speech, and was compelled to leave the stage because he broke down crying. There were reminders that they were many who had wanted to but could not attend for one reason or another. But even these were tempered by optimism and hope. Esther, we were told, received joy in her final days from gatherings of friends such as this, and those who could not attend were present in spirit, aided by live commentary and occasional streaming from us. The tone was overwhelmingly positive.

The last time I attended NerdCon (NerdCon: Stories in 2016), it turned out to be an inspiration for me, in part spurring the creation of this very blog. I do not yet know what the result of this year’s attendance will be, but I can state categorically that I left with a far better feeling about the world than when I arrived, which, I believe, makes this year’s attendance a victory.