Every once in a while, when I am feeling down, I like to take a second to remember that I have greatly overestimated my specialness.
At first, this may sound counter-intuitive. But, if you’re down or blue as a result of your circumstances, it is quite helpful to remember that, relatively speaking, your circumstances are probably pretty good, and that is rarely because of anything you’ve done.
Now, obviously, this doesn’t apply to everyone. In fact, it probably doesn’t apply to most people. But it does tend to apply to the types of people who overestimate both their specialness and their own participation in the creation of that specialness.
I like to remind myself that the simple act of indulging excessively in introspection is an act of privilege. Having time to consider feelings and to make desired emotions a primary part of my daily life are almost definitely signs that I am living with more freedom than I have earned.
What gives me the right to enjoy myself on a regular basis? What gives me the audacity to think I should be smiling all the time? What gives me the idea that I am somehow deserving of pleasure?
These questions help me more than anything, because I am incapable of supplying an acceptable answer to them. And that is my solution. For some reason, I allow myself to be subconsciously lulled into believing these concepts that I am somehow special and therefore especially deserving of joy or of calmness. Because I can only experience the world through my eyes and because, even with empathy, I can truly never feel the plight of another, all the good and all the bad that happen to me seem larger and more visceral and more “real” than anything I can imagine happening to any other human being. I can try to fully understand the experience of another, but I will fail every time. I am one, and all others are “others.” And since I cannot enter the soul of an “other” in order to see my true place as an “other” myself, I will always feel distinct and somehow unique.
This is not the case. I have simply overestimated my importance because of my closeness to the subject that is my life. All the details matter and all the feelings are impactful. Everything is here and now and loud and mine and constant and urgent.
But this applies to everyone. I am not special or important. At least not more than anyone else.
And as I think about these things, a wave of calm comes over me, as I remember, again, that I am not special. And suddenly the things about my life that I don’t like matter less because they are no longer an imposition on the perfect life I imagine I deserve, but are instead just part of the random life that I am given.