Striving to be average
[WARNING: THIS IS A BORING POST. NOT THE LEAST BIT ENTERTAINING. I'M NOT KIDDING.]
For the past few months this idea has been percolating in my head, and several times I have tried to figure out how to express it on this blog. It's not really working out, though. I can (and will) tell you what I've been thinking, but I don't think the idea itself is going to come across. But here goes.
Basically it's this: I feel like a lot of my mental energy and a lot of the struggling that I observe a lot of people going through boils down to one thing -- the desire to be extraordinary. And while I feel like it's an admirable thing to struggle towards, lately I've been feeling like when my time comes to die I'm going to feel that that struggle was silly and pointless. Why should we always be striving to assume immortal reputations, to stand out in every crowd, to be better and more special and more interesting than everyone around us?
My lowest points in life were these: in high school when I realized I was gay and the boy I loved was not; and a trip to Europe in 2003 when I was trying to get over The Canadian. And both times I was saved by rejecting the idea that I was special or different. The first depression was relieved by finding other gays once I moved to New York and (more importantly) friends who didn't give a crap that I liked boys. The second depression was, I think, more difficult (or maybe just more recent and therefore more vivid in my mind). I remember being in Amsterdam and feeling beyond suicidal. Suicide would have required more energy than I could muster. One day I had a moment of clarity in which I thought, "I'm not so special. There are probably hundreds of thousands of guys like me out there right now who feel like I feel, and eventually I'll find one of them and we'll be happy together." I don't think it's what cured my depression, but it was a sign that things were turning around in my mind. I found so much comfort in that idea that I was normal, average, and that I wasn't alone.
I think it's completely fine and admirable to want to do extraodinary work -- which is a different issue, in my mind -- but this need to be brilliantly famous, to have a life with historical significance, is a huge waste of energy. Most of that is far beyond your control and has more to do with cultural shifts than anything else. Fashioning your whole life around the pursuit of fame, thinly veiled to friends and family as the best kind of ambition, is just such a waste. I wish people (myself included) could chill out a little bit and concentrate on having a real, human experience. To complete your life knowing that you experienced what it was like to be alive during this time, in this culture, is enough.
See? I'm not really getting my thoughts across. It all started a few months ago when I watched a documentary about Apollo 8 and saw that "earthrise" photo. It just gave me this feeling, which I'm still trying to articulate, of how unique our situation is on this planet and how a lot of the egotism that makes people feel unaccomplished and unimportant is just so damn pointless.
I don't know if that really makes any sense, but it's informing a lot of my thinking about medical school and the path my career is going to take so I thought I would share it. It all sounds very strange, I realize. I think a lot of smart people don't want to confess that they have that kind of ambition inside them. But having gotten off of one career track and onto another, I've run into many people (several of them my close friends) who are uncomfortable that I would tag myself as a quitter so early in life. You can tell they think I've fucked up my biography so badly they're almost embarrassed to discuss it. And then we all try to plaster over the awkwardness with some kind of storyline that explains how my jobs in entertainment clearly led me to medicine. I'm not immune to it, either. I have those feelings, too. And over the next few years I'm going to have to think carefully about how I really want to spend the rest of my career so that I don't end up choosing a residency program based on silly status distinctions.
Okay. I've edited this post 18 or 19 times now. I'm giving up. This is as close as I can come to explaining myself. I warned you that you wouldn't be entertained.
P.S. I just edited it for the 20th time.
P.P.S. It turns out that during the latter part of my European trip, Drew flew to London to get over a breakup. I wouldn't meet him for another 15 months.
For the past few months this idea has been percolating in my head, and several times I have tried to figure out how to express it on this blog. It's not really working out, though. I can (and will) tell you what I've been thinking, but I don't think the idea itself is going to come across. But here goes.
Basically it's this: I feel like a lot of my mental energy and a lot of the struggling that I observe a lot of people going through boils down to one thing -- the desire to be extraordinary. And while I feel like it's an admirable thing to struggle towards, lately I've been feeling like when my time comes to die I'm going to feel that that struggle was silly and pointless. Why should we always be striving to assume immortal reputations, to stand out in every crowd, to be better and more special and more interesting than everyone around us?
My lowest points in life were these: in high school when I realized I was gay and the boy I loved was not; and a trip to Europe in 2003 when I was trying to get over The Canadian. And both times I was saved by rejecting the idea that I was special or different. The first depression was relieved by finding other gays once I moved to New York and (more importantly) friends who didn't give a crap that I liked boys. The second depression was, I think, more difficult (or maybe just more recent and therefore more vivid in my mind). I remember being in Amsterdam and feeling beyond suicidal. Suicide would have required more energy than I could muster. One day I had a moment of clarity in which I thought, "I'm not so special. There are probably hundreds of thousands of guys like me out there right now who feel like I feel, and eventually I'll find one of them and we'll be happy together." I don't think it's what cured my depression, but it was a sign that things were turning around in my mind. I found so much comfort in that idea that I was normal, average, and that I wasn't alone.
I think it's completely fine and admirable to want to do extraodinary work -- which is a different issue, in my mind -- but this need to be brilliantly famous, to have a life with historical significance, is a huge waste of energy. Most of that is far beyond your control and has more to do with cultural shifts than anything else. Fashioning your whole life around the pursuit of fame, thinly veiled to friends and family as the best kind of ambition, is just such a waste. I wish people (myself included) could chill out a little bit and concentrate on having a real, human experience. To complete your life knowing that you experienced what it was like to be alive during this time, in this culture, is enough.
See? I'm not really getting my thoughts across. It all started a few months ago when I watched a documentary about Apollo 8 and saw that "earthrise" photo. It just gave me this feeling, which I'm still trying to articulate, of how unique our situation is on this planet and how a lot of the egotism that makes people feel unaccomplished and unimportant is just so damn pointless.
I don't know if that really makes any sense, but it's informing a lot of my thinking about medical school and the path my career is going to take so I thought I would share it. It all sounds very strange, I realize. I think a lot of smart people don't want to confess that they have that kind of ambition inside them. But having gotten off of one career track and onto another, I've run into many people (several of them my close friends) who are uncomfortable that I would tag myself as a quitter so early in life. You can tell they think I've fucked up my biography so badly they're almost embarrassed to discuss it. And then we all try to plaster over the awkwardness with some kind of storyline that explains how my jobs in entertainment clearly led me to medicine. I'm not immune to it, either. I have those feelings, too. And over the next few years I'm going to have to think carefully about how I really want to spend the rest of my career so that I don't end up choosing a residency program based on silly status distinctions.
Okay. I've edited this post 18 or 19 times now. I'm giving up. This is as close as I can come to explaining myself. I warned you that you wouldn't be entertained.
P.S. I just edited it for the 20th time.
P.P.S. It turns out that during the latter part of my European trip, Drew flew to London to get over a breakup. I wouldn't meet him for another 15 months.
Labels: Drew, Medical School, The Canadian
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