I've Got My Own Problems

When I used to work in fantasy sports, people would ask me questions about their teams, e.g., which players to start, who to drop. What they didn’t realize is I had seven of my own teams to worry about, was already living and dying with my own myriad choices, good and bad, I made every week. The last thing I needed was to make a decision for them, see it go bad and suffer more on their account.

I’d tell them, “You decide, I’ve got my own problems.”

. . .

I don’t know what I’m doing. Ideas which feel like insights come to me, I try to articulate them to my satisfaction and post them (with some editing help from Heather.) Often I feel like I should be producing more work — after all, I don’t have a job any more, I have plenty of time. Walking the dog, exercising, managing your finances, picking up the kid, putting food on the table (literally) is well and good, but fulfilling your duties is not enough. You need to stay in the game. What game is up to each person, but it should be a game you enjoy, one that draws on skills honed over decades by the accident of your particular interests.

. . .

Writing and ideas can’t be produced on demand. I mean they can — and I did it for 22 years on a particular topic — but I don’t mean that kind of writing. I don’t want a schedule. I don’t need more rules, more discipline, more “hacks.” Discipline is like the interest on a 30-year mortgage. Initially it’s most of the payment, but over time it cedes weight to understanding which is like the principal. Discipline without understanding is like an interest-only mortgage. You pay it every month and get nowhere.

Even when insights arrive they can’t always be articulated sufficiently and coherently. Many insights are of the one sentence variety — fine for a social media post, but you can’t send out an email newsletter 10 times per day with one sentence insights. It doesn’t work over that medium.

That’s a dilemma because posting on social media doesn’t feel like proper work. Yes, you’re reaching people, affecting the zeitgeist in whatever small way — but there’s something addictive and unsatisfying about it, like eating candy instead of food. Don’t get me wrong, I stand by my posts (consider them organic, artisanal candy) but shitposting and the immediate feedback received therefrom keeps you only on the periphery. I need to connect with something deeper.

. . .

I’ve spent a lot of time dissecting the various pathologies of the laptop class, of which I’m obviously a part as I literally type this in a coffee shop on my laptop! The need to believe they are empathic and good overwhelming any rational sense-making and basic morals. Men dominating women’s sports, child sex changes, forced injections, criminals running rampant, cities in decay, calls for censorship and funding for foreign wars. The authorities patted them on the back, their peers accepted them and their overlords promoted them so long as they hewed to the narrative.

The freakout we’re presently witnessing is not about the billions in taxpayer money no longer being sent for DEI training in some foreign country, i.e., money-laundering to favored interests and cronies. They’re not really upset FBI agents are being fired, secrets are being revealed, that we are finally making an effort to prevent fentanyl from flowing across the border and killing our fellow citizens. These are good things, and even if you don’t agree, none of it is grounds for the meltdowns I see every day on social media.

What’s really happening is people who were assured they were the “good”, the empathic, the compassionate ones, those who toed the line during covid, got their boosters, wore their masks, “social distanced,” put pronouns in their bios, are being confronted with a terrifying realization: the behaviors and beliefs, to which they so dutifully attached themselves, for which they publicly and stridently advocated, whether online or at Thanksgiving dinner, are no longer being rewarded. In fact, they are being openly ridiculed. Instead of the pat on the back, increasingly Team Good is facing mockery and outright scorn.

There will be no legal consequences. No one will be arrested or put in a camp, delusions of persecution notwithstanding. If you produce real value for a real employer, you are not at risk of being fired. If you insist on perpetuating your derangement on social media you will not be deplatformed or canceled (that only happens to people speaking truths inconvenient to the powerful.)

No, the reality is in some ways far worse: your entire worldview, on which you staked your self-image, is being dismantled in real time. You are no longer “good,” it’s becoming obvious to most the policies for which you advocated were catastrophic, the politicians for whom you voted deeply cynical and corrupt. The gaping abyss within your being to which you attached this superstructure of self-affirmation is dissolving into thin air. You are not “superior” like you thought, you are just another person suffering and existing like everyone else. And your only choices are to face that daunting reality or cling to a dying and useless paradigm, the end game for which is only madness.

We all want to feel good about ourselves, and like an obese person drugging himself with high-fructose corn syrup for years, you have gorged on the distorted approbation of a sick society that, unpleasantly for you, is starting to heal. Your first laps around the track, so to speak, are going to hurt a lot.

. . .

I probably went on too long about the laptop class freakout. I have a lot of resentment toward the way they behaved the last five years. But I started this essay with the idea that I have my own problems, and in the end, I am not much different from them.

I want to produce more work, and of higher quality, but to what end? To feel good about my contributions, to have a sense that I am “good.” Maybe it’s not “good” in the lame “I complied with authority, and everyone likes me” kind of way, but it arises from the same source. That source is the emptiness within, wherein we require accolades, dopamine, positive feedback as a kind of justification for our existence. “No, I am not squandering my time on earth, living a comfortable life, I am asking hard questions, connecting with people, sharing hard-won insights. I am useful! I am good! I got my sixth dopamine booster from writing yet another essay!”

. . .

There is an irony in writing this piece. I feel as I type the cathartic nature of expressing these feelings. I am doing something worthwhile, everything is flowing out of me, the minutes are sailing by. I am identifying and solving this thorny problem simultaneously, engaging with the emptiness and dissatisfaction. The solution isn’t in the output, whatever one might think of it, it’s in giving attention to the feelings I’ve squandered too much time avoiding. I feel unworthy not because I do not produce enough work, it turns out, but because I am unwilling to connect with my deepest nature.

. . .

No matter how uneasy you feel, no matter how much fundamental doubt you have about your value as a human being, you can always start where you are. The feeling of unworthiness, the need for an escape, the craving for some kind of reward from your peers or the authorities or whatever easily-consumed carbohydrates you have in the kitchen is simply the present state in which you find yourself. It is not wrong or bad, it just is. And what is can always be examined, observed, given attention. Attending to that discomfort is always within reach.

. . .

The last thing I want to do is write an essay, face a purgatory of sitting down and consciously putting my feelings into words. It’s so much easier to distract oneself with all the news about the world, check 100 times a day the price of bitcoin and my other investments. But purgatory is the only way out of hell. The hell of wanting to succeed, of wanting to become “good.”

For some, that astroturfed worldview they so painstaking affixed to their empty souls is dissolving toward a revelation of the emptiness beneath. And unsurprisingly they are freaking out. But I’ve wasted too much time arguing with them, pointing out the ways in which they’re misinformed, driven by fear and derelict in their basic epistemic responsibilities. If you want to hold onto the lies you were told, knock yourself out. I’ve got my own problems.