I’m losing it.
It here means composure, temper, sanity, competence, confidence, clarity about my purpose on earth. “It” wasn’t something one lost when I was young. You lost something specific – a game, a sock; you lost track. You might lose yourself – in enchantment, enthusiasm. You might lose your balance. But “it,” meaning your entirety, was an idiom that came of age when I did.
Symptoms of my loss include anxiety, irritability, insomnia. I am groping for its restoration now, at three a.m., head pounding, heart in my throat. I’m not sick; nothing’s specifically “the matter”; but my world feels like it’s coming unglued. A valium might help – but no, it’s been years since I’ve had recourse to chemistry to soothe my soul.
There’s so much to dread I don’t know in which direction. A weird war in Iran, threats against Cuba, Venezuela, Canada, an endless war in Ukraine, attacks on science, education, the press, spreading pederasty amongst the mighty, spiking measles, corroding climate, cultural devastation, inflation, nervous markets, incessant lies. To our foreign friends, “American,” once a boast, has turned pejorative.
If I lose “it”, I’ll be worthless in this crisis, maybe mangle my own affairs. I must get a grip. But what can I hold onto as our ship of state pitches and yaws! I dispatch my mind into literature – that helps – but soon dread seeps back.
A crisis nears, can’t you feel it? When and where none can predict, but soon. What might the Nameless One do when he loses it, knowing his game is up? Toddlers shouldn’t be given nukes to play with.
Words are my railing. (I never noticed that homonym before: railing and railing.) If I can speak, “it” isn’t wholly lost. I groan with Lear:
Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedO, let me not be mad, not mad, sweet heaven!Keep me in temper; I would not be mad!
We wait. None can stall the storm, it will have its way. I coax, then command myself to keep calm: panic only makes things worse. Let the crisis come, I find myself praying, for the suspense is unendurable.
Soldiers in battle must feel this way. Jane and I are watching lectures about the first world war, absurdly dubbed “the Great.” The horrors of trench warfare changed men’s minds, wounded or not. Likewise, all who’ve paid attention through the past decade will be changed by it. My outlook is grimmer, more skeptical, less patriotic than before. Assuming America survives, how should we rebuild? The prospect of reconstruction exhausts: I’m too old for this!
Camaraderie consoles. I draw strength from you. I owe you hope. It’s OK to weep, but then we must dry our eyes and get cracking. Focus on what we can do, not on all we can’t. The worst that can happen will happen – to us all, sooner or later – so let’s make the best of the time allowed!
Writing rights me. What a privilege, I tell myself, this front-row seat at our defining hour. I am learning so much – about mankind and myself. I never suspected such depravity, timidity, stupidity, uncertainty. The truth is worth knowing, even when it hurts.
The hour also gives me purpose. Literature is not decorative in a dire moment. We must remind ourselves what it means to be good and the good we’re capable of. We must dust off the old truths to steady ourselves. “That which does not kill us,” said Nietzsche, “makes us stronger.”
Words – which connect us – make me feel better. They superimpose order. Their wily ways elicit smiles. We will survive this awful hour. And we have each other.
Better together.