I have occupied a very dark place over the last several weeks. In recent months I have been exploring Joseph Campbell’s heroic cycle. I am fixated on the belly of the whale, trying to understand its meaning and whether it could possibly apply to my own experience. The hero finds himself in crisis with no apparent salvation. The resolution may be sparked by the hero finding power within himself or by Deus Ex Machina, where help comes improbably and miraculously from outside. Emerging from the belly is a process of rebirth, with the hero finding new focus in his quest and the tools and strength he needs to overcome his opposition.
Unfortunately, my life story is not heroic. A more suiting word is mundane.
I am overwhelmed by the circumstances of my life. I am imprisoned by the routine of corporate slavery. Each day, I sit within the confines of my car for an hour so that I can sit for 8 to 10 hours within the confines of my cubicle, then back to the car for an hour and back to the world of “special needs” parenting. Despite a decent paycheck, it doesn’t quite cover the bills, which include extravagances like cable internet, cell phones, and indoor plumbing. Not to mention this pathetic excuse for a blog, where entries like this seek to undermine everything I’ve worked for.
To the rest of the world, I lead a life of surplus and affluence, but in reality I fall further into debt and the clutches of corporate indentureship. Is this what it means to be free? Is this what thousands of years of human struggle and sacrifice has earned? Freedom is a choice, but somewhere along the line my choices became shackles.
I have it good at my job. I set my own hours, the environment is relaxed, and the pay and benefits are good. But every time my coworkers and I express this sentiment, I can’t help but feel that the sentiment is simply a tool to supplicate the slave into acceptance of his role. As I grow older, I see myself fading into obscurity as the doors shut on my childhood dreams, possibilities that could have been had I made opportunities for myself earlier in life.
When I was a kid, I loved animals. I made a point to become friends with all the cats in my neighborhood. I felt a special connection with animals and I fancied that maybe when I grew up I’d be a veterinarian. I believed that caring for a pet would prepare me to be a good father. Now when I look at our cats, I see filthy creatures that puke and pee on our furniture and leave hair on every surface of the house. I am disgusted by them, and in turn I am disgusted with myself. When did this happen? Where did the boy who loved animals go?
All that is left is an empty, angry shell, cowering under the weight of problems that may or may not be under my control. I know I can’t fix the atrocities that occur under the guise of U.S. foreign policy, and I can’t stop discourteous people from being discourteous. But I can control how I react to these occurrences, yet I have so much anger at everything that I can’t behave rationally when given an opportunity to address these injustices. I can’t help but conclude that the human brain is simply not equipped to cope with modern life. At the very least, mine is not.
There is a fatal flaw in the human condition that prevents us from living the ideals we all so desperately strive to uphold. Is there anyone who would argue against peace, justice, tolerance, freedom, and liberty? Yet every day, we deprive ourselves of these ideals.
So I am stuck inside the belly. In a heroic tale, I would find strength from within. But in reality, all I find is an empty shell whose soul has been utterly shattered under the pressure of modern living.
