I slept in the classrooms of MIT each night of one interesting homeless year. During the summer of that year I tried, a few times, bedding down in the shrubbery outside- but that always proved less hospitable- poking sticks, insects, oscillating temperatures. The classrooms of MIT became comforting to me and soon felt much like home. That situation lasted close to a year.
But although at first I had had no real class objections to joining the part of the underclass known as “the homeless” by year’s end it had begun to wear pretty thin. Late at night I’d have trouble falling asleep. My insomnia had nothing to do with the now-comfortable concrete floors or the bulky pillow of my bag. My insomnia had to do with the disparity of my hoped for future and the conditions I lived in.
All my nebulous dreams for my future self were grandiose and none could be conceivably arrived at from my then condition. What was wrong with myself, I began asking, that I had arrived at such an ignominious social condition- often drunk, barely employed, and homeless? Could I ever reasonably hope to attain a grand future? What could conceivably, realistically, change within myself to change my circumstances?
I worked this over in my mind and began, to a small extent, to quietly despair.
There was one thought, though, that became comforting to me, and it was a thought that would ease my clenched brow and let me fall asleep: the thought that perhaps I would never achieve anything in my life. Perhaps lying on the floor, semi-sober, making minimum wage was the pinnacle of my life. My life might be one of squalor, ever-wasted talent, bad choices, wrong choices, and choices wrongly never made.
This was comforting precisely because I knew that I could live with this if it came to pass. Come the worst, I knew that I would survive. What was killing my peace of mind wasn’t my circumstances, but the seemingly unbridgeable chasm between dream and reality. By accepting that all desired futures might never occur- and that that would be all right- I was nightly able to find surcease from anguish.
A friend of mine has a similar philosophy- she believes that on her deathbed she’ll be full of regrets. She believes that she’ll probably look back on a life full of missed opportunities, and feel that the life she lived was barely adequate. And this belief has freed her. Although she had a childhood tinged with abuse- with alcoholic, abusive (and soon absent) parents, shuttled through foster homes; today she’s got a great long-time boyfriend, a nice home, a fulfilling well-paying job, is constantly learning. She acts as a Big Sister to a needy young kid, is learning to sail- etc. Needless to say she spends no time on regrets or woe.
Her life is going to suck no matter what, she believes, and as she can’t possibly make the right choices, she might as well maximize the return on the best of all of the bad choices she’ll make.
My friend is a pretty happy woman. She’s constantly optimistic in the short term, and willing to try many new activities and viewpoints. It’s only in the long term that she deprecates her chances for happiness, or her likelihood of choosing well. Her belief may be wrong, but it’s not limiting- it frees her. If things go well, that’s great, but if everything falls apart, she’s ready to face it all with a brave heart.
Soon after I began wrapping myself in the nightly fantasy of permanent squalor I moved out of the MIT classrooms. After I accepted that I might never be able to do anything good or permanent in my life, I found options surrounding myself. Being able to face the worst possible scenario and realizing that it’s bearable has often been an enlightening and empowering experience in my life. And in my friends’ lives.
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