The Unexamined Life

It's close to noon on a Tuesday, and I'm wondering whether or not I'll be getting out of bed today. It is as yet an uncertainty, even to me; but so far the smart money is on "˜no'. The argument can be made that, as it is almost noon, I have essentially missed half of what this particular Tuesday had to offer. Since I'm already entertaining doubts as to the quality of the second half, I'm considering whether I should just forgo the whole spectacle.

The only problem is that I forewent Monday as well, and Friday the week before. Although I can't really remember back any further than that with much acuity, a glance at my daily planner would tell me I'd opted out of Thursday too. Furthermore, skipping today is likely to decrease Wednesday's chance of making it on the board as well--which means I'm on the verge of giving myself a sorely undeserved week-long vacation from the world. Some strange sort of extra sensory perception kicks in. It tells me this is something my professors might not appreciate.

In my planner I record my lost days with little black marks, not for dramatic effect as much as a sense of chronology. When I didn't I'd lose all track of time; days would bleed into each other, the narrative of my life would become erratic and terrifying. While this practice provides the comfort of sequence, it also allows me to tally just how much life I'm missing.

I eventually get out of bed. I don't want to, but I am driven by the usual primal needs: eating, pooping, and gaming. Convinced at this point that the day cannot be salvaged, I reconcile my undesired exodus by not putting on any clothes.

So it comes to pass that on a Tuesday afternoon, while the rest of the world is at class or at work or dead, I am sitting at my computer in my underwear. And while rooting for a DVD within the protean kipple beneath my desk, I find myself bounded, staring up wild-eyed from within a reflective, circular prison. So pale, so thin, so obviously damaged. This is the climax, the zenith of the troth. For a moment so immeasurably brief it may as well be infinite, I have lost all recognition of myself. It's like nirvana in reverse.

This is when the bells go off, the klaxons I try so hard to suppress, the voice at the back of my mind repeating: "You are not in control. You are not in control. You are not in control."

I would not say I've ever "struggled" with depression. I've yet to even wholeheartedly embrace the term. Until recently, I had resisted assigning any moniker to these periods. I believed that labels have a tendency to take over, to become bigger than the thing itself. To submit to a label is to forever become the label, and as such there were labels I thought I'd best avoid: depression, psychosis, nervous breakdown.

People for whom depression is an actual struggle seem inclined to much less subtle forms of self-destruction; drink and drugs and The Cure. My bouts, supported primarily on the twin pillars of sleep and videogames, seem quite pedestrian in comparison. As such I've never been inclined to describe these meetings with depression as "struggles", as much as a series of week-long, nerdy debates, punctuated by fits of narcolepsy.

But I've begun to sleep even more; to eat less. I've the distinct sense that I'm becoming powerless over my own actions. I live my life in the narrow spaces around these moments, hoping they won't come. When they do, I wait patiently in stasis for their end, the world passing by outside my window. At some point one has to give in, and let the label overtake them.

In these moments every action becomes suspect. Everything I do is either a symptom or a treatment. To gain relief, everything must be examined. Each activity must be sorted into one of two columns: degenerate and not so degenerate. Showering in the dark: degenerate. My room's slow decline into squalid entropy: quite obviously degenerate. This compulsion is, of course, quite debilitating itself. While the unexamined life may not be worth living, the over-examined life is unlivable.

Like everything in my life, games must face this manic scrutiny. But they're one of the more complicated cases. I find it strange that besides sleep, misery, and crippling, neurotic introspection, all quite common events in the depressive Olympiad, gaming is the one common denominator between these episodes. In fact, I might even say I hardly ever play as many games as when I'm at my most miserable. Of course, this inevitably leads me wonder: do I play because I'm depressed, or am I depressed because I play?

This is a depressive paradox, meaningless and labyrinthine and ultimately useless, but in this state it becomes a koan, an all-absorbing mantra. Why do I play so many games during these periods? Why am I so compelled? In a situation where I cannot even control what time I get out of bed, perhaps it's no wonder that I would prefer the perfect, immaculate control of an avatar to my own sloppy interface. And perhaps that's why I've begun to yell at the top of my lungs when my avatar doesn't respond appropriately, to react in frightening disproportion when latency shatters my illusion.

When I was a child, and there was little in the world from which I desired escape, games were a supplement to my life. Have they now become a detriment? They seem to have taken on a new meaning. They have become objects of escapism in the truest sense of the word. But what sort of escape? When I play games, am I waiting out the storm, or fiddling while my city burns?

My roommate comes in. He says that dinner's ready. He asks why I'm in my underwear. Though caught off-balance by the passage of six unnoticed hours, I'm quick on the draw: "I was just about to take a shower".

The fever breaks, but I know that it is temporary. Relapse is inevitable; the boulder will roll down into the valley. But at least I have something to occupy my mind while I'm pushing it back up--who cares if it means I'll take a little longer to get to the top? In the shower, I already hear whispers in the running water. "You are not in control. You are not in control. You are not in control."

Comments

Great article! You have a gift for telling a story, you are in control.

Gaald wrote:

Great article! You have a gift for telling a story, you are in control.

Yep. Your capacity for control is blatant.

As a tale of the motivationless - it'd be interesting to know what motivated you to write it.

Interesting article.

I'd venture forth that your means of control and escape are linked to the inner simplicity of a life filled with games and as a result person's mind can become lazy and will actively seek out these simplistic forms of "interaction" with an imaginary world over the complex interactions of the real world. Same as a habitual drinker (not a drunk or an addict) will continue to have a few beers straight after getting home from work.

What you need is a break from life. A change.

I suppose it could be anything but i guess the most important things i would consider are having people with you and having sunlight and emptiness - ie. no clutter. It's amazing the effect of clutter has on your mind. I recently noticed this when our usually empty (except for furniture) living room was filled with stuff that a temporary housemate is using. It makes me not enjoy the room anymore. Strange as that sounds.

Hope you feel better today.

Malacola is the new Lobo!

Migthy read, oh depressed one. Hope you find your courage soon.

And change always does me good too, when I'm down. Just to make me realize life really isn't that predictable and boring, just if you make it so. And more important: that an overdose of routine makes me very unhappy. And getting out more.

These clichés have been served to you by Generic Advice Generator 3000 - now with DDT compatibility!

Your articles always grab me. Very well written, although I hope you didn't write it in your underwear.

It's all about the willpower and discipline.

This rings so true for me in my twenties that it's a little hard to read. My attempts at self destruction tended more towars The Cure, and a complete disregard for everyone around me. The computer games weren't good enought to become the teat of poison.

And then there was Doom...

rabbit wrote:

This rings so true for me in my twenties that it's a little hard to read.

Yeah, same here. It's like the essence of my freshman year of college distilled into a one page article.

I think Duoae offers some sound advice regarding both clutter and companionship.

CannibalCrowley wrote:

It's all about the willpower and discipline.

Sorry to get all clinical, but not when we're talking about clinical depression, it's not. Its a common misconception of those unfamiliar with this albatross of a disease that if one merely picks oneself up by the bootstraps, it'll be okay.
Maybe what Malacola is going through is (hopefully) somewhat shy of the mark of clinical depression, in which case the disciplines of routine and self-forced social interaction can help.

But gumption doesn't cure everything. And that's all of the nineteenth century phrases I can think to fit into this post.

Malacola wrote:

When I was a child, and there was little in the world from which I desired escape, games were a supplement to my life. Have they now become a detriment?

So true, as a child I had no worries and videogames were just a supplement to the other toys I had. Games were there just to keep me from getting bored. But now sometimes I feel like I'm playing games just to escape from the real world. I think a lot also has to do with how games have changed over the years; we now have massive, immersive worlds like WoW and EQ or any other MMO where players can get sucked into its virtual world while ignoring reality. Can games like Pong or Pac-Man offer the same kind of escapism? I wouldn't think so.

Nice piece, Ian. This is definitely the best writing you've done for the site thus far, and I eagerly anticipate your next installment.

I have definitely been through this myself, mostly during college, and so your words hit home. My responsibilities don't allow me to fall into those patterns any longer. However, I found that allowing myself to plunge headlong into sad, introspective malaise was a darkly beautiful and cathartic endeavor. You learn a lot about yourself when you slide fully into vice and apathy, not all of it pleasant.

Get an evaluation and figure out if you're actually depressed. You might just be suffering from boredom and laziness, two conditions which are a lot easier to deal with than depression.

Copingsaw wrote:

Your articles always grab me. Very well written, although I hope you didn't write it in your underwear.

Alright you, that's enough thinking about each other's manties. Get back to work. Malacola, since you're a student, you have access to free mind and body health care that most Americans would kill to have. Getting in for an evaluation is a recommendation that I would make. You don't have to live with depression, there are lots of paths away from the abyss. (Just as many as lead in, ironically.) Don't be embarrassed or ashamed to ask for help to stop the sysiphean cycle. Big hugs baby!

Thanks a lot for the comments guys. I was wary of this idea, as I was fairly certain it would be hard to make people want to read about my life as a sad sack, but it was something I was familiar with. I am moving away from this period, and getting counselling, and will hopefully out that I am just bored and lazy. Then perhaps I can play games like I used to, for fun instead of distraction. These moments were the most shameful wastes of my life, but at least I got an article out of them.

Copingsaw wrote:

Your articles always grab me. Very well written, although I hope you didn't write it in your underwear.

Sorry. I pretty much can only accomplish things when I'm not wearing any pants. Thanks, though.

Welcome brother Malacola.

IMAGE(http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v317/TheRealEdwin/224.gif)

^^^ Great picture Edwin !

Ian,

I can tell you what worked for me. I can't tell what will work for you 100% - you may have to find it for yourself.
Get off your chair right now, swing your arms left and right for a few moments, then get down on the floor and do 5 push-ups. Yes, 5. Then put on some clothes and go for a walk in a green park or an equivalently nice place, for 30 minutes. Walk slow or walk fast, whatever you prefer.

See how you feel afterwards and decide for yourself. It's not going to create a miracle, but you will find out that within a month of doing this once a day you should be able to go up to 20 push-ups and it will contribute a lot to the way you feel. It will start to shift the scales of priority between leveling up your real self and leveling up your virtual avatar, as you will see real changes in the way your upper body looks and feels in a very short period of time. It's going to stimulate your subconscious to level you up more and in other directions - not just in the physical.

Duoae wrote:

I suppose it could be anything but i guess the most important things i would consider are having people with you and having sunlight and emptiness - ie. no clutter. It's amazing the effect of clutter has on your mind. I recently noticed this when our usually empty (except for furniture) living room was filled with stuff that a temporary housemate is using. It makes me not enjoy the room anymore. Strange as that sounds.

I've noticed all of this to be 100% true.

Amazing article Ian. I don't have much to add but

While the unexamined life may not be worth living, the over-examined life is unlivable.

resonates so strongly with me, it'll be in my head for weeks.

booty wrote:

Amazing article Ian. I don't have much to add but

While the unexamined life may not be worth living, the over-examined life is unlivable.

resonates so strongly with me, it'll be in my head for weeks.

seconded, and sigged

I felt like this back in the fall of 1999 during the first semester of my last year of law school; it was starting to drag. I had all night classes and had an internship a few mornings during the week. But I blew if off a lot and just slept in a lot (just couldn't get out of bed!). Then I would get up and play Baldur's Gate for several hours instead of reading for class. Somehow I snapped out of it around the beging of Second semester. Maybe I could finally see the end, maybe my upcoming wedding in a few months gave me a better outlook. But I've been there, and gotten past it.