My mind is like a train
I find myself here, in late September, in my thirty-fourth year of age, reckoning with the things that work and the things that don't.
I am not referring to the "failures" I have experienced, to things falling apart, or to other situations I would like to see improved.
Of course, those things also give me pause, but although sometimes I remain stuck under these negative thoughts, in complaints and murmurings, I think it is more important to try to free myself from what has led me to live poorly - living in a way not compatible with my serenity.
My day often ends after midnight, in front of a PC, looking for stimuli, maybe funny videos, sometimes rather long, those "compilations" of amusing situations seen on TV or stories about famous people who have gone through one situation or another.
I feel drained - first of my will, then of my sleep.
I go to bed, I toss and turn for 10 minutes reflecting lucidly on the things I should do with my life, then I fall asleep.
The next morning, upon waking, the resolution I had is gone: I hurry to get up, go to the bathroom to perform my physiological functions while reading the news on my phone, put on some music and take a shower - the music helps me mark the time - then I get dressed, prepare breakfast for my daughter, wake her up, dress her and wait for her to eat, perhaps eating something myself with her.
I leave home, take her to daycare, look for parking, go to work.
After work, I go home and then go pick up my daughter from daycare.
I play with her, dead tired, and finally dinner time arrives, time to get her ready for bed, time to turn off the light in her room and wait for her to fall asleep.
An hour passes, an hour and a half, and finally in the little room there is silence.
What remains of my day?
What remains of my freedom?
What can I do to gratify myself?
My wife is working to prepare her lessons for tomorrow at school, or she is already asleep.
Sometimes a little glass of liqueur helps me relax, but the reality is that in that relaxation induced by alcohol there is an abandonment to the "animal" within me, to quote Battiato and his philosophical references.
In short, I lose my willpower. This has been going on for months, with increasing frequency.
One night, after having gone to bed past 2 a.m. with the alarm set for 7, I found myself as lucid as ever.
I "connected" many things in a sudden and enlightening brainstorm, and the pieces lined up like railway cars snapped back into order; I could see the flaws in my conviction.
I could not - and still cannot - see my problems with perfect clarity, and yet I could see their limits, the links between them, their shape, like outlines traced on frosted glass.
Like Rorschach blots, I can interpret these "intuitive" patterns - which I call "parts of me" - and assign them symbolic images, purely representative and with no clinical pretension, but effective indicators of the problem (or web of problems) they manifest.
But what have I just written? Let me try to explain myself better.
The human mind is a labyrinth of different parts, each with its own role and its own voice, that should more or less be in tune in an adult with a healthy mind.
In my case, I imagine my mind as a place - a train more than a house - inhabited by entities I call, for simplicity, "Autopilot," "Pig," "Boss," and "The Cleric," and probably some others I have not yet named.
The locomotive travels the track of my life and passes many stations, salient events, moving between the two terminals in one direction only. There are slowdowns, unforeseen stops, breakdowns, delays, sometimes collisions and acts of vandalism.
Each passenger, each part, has its lights and shadows, strengths and weaknesses. All the parts together make up the total of my psyche, which I call Self.
A concept I must clarify is that a part with marked negative traits can still have positive driving force if correctly channeled.
This applies to various human spheres - affection, sexuality, economy - and none of these spheres stays within neat borders; sexuality affects the body and behaviors, but it also steers daily choices.
The Autopilot is the part that manages daily routines, letting me travel through life without too much effort on those sets of habits and rules I call the tracks.
It is efficient and reliable for simple tasks - like an automatic kettle that switches off when the water boils - and strangely enough it resembles an AI trained on all the salient situations I've lived.
This part is useful until it plays at the wrong times, because it leads me to meet my daughter, my wife, and my work with passivity and superficiality, and, as said, to end my days in a blur.
Passivity is necessary - otherwise a derailment from the tracks could trigger a crisis, an emotional nervous breakdown - but passivity can also let me lose awareness of where I am and where I'm going.
The Pig seeks immediate gratification and pleasure.
It pushes me to enjoy life's pleasures, sometimes steering me toward behaviors I know aren't in the interest of my Self.
This part is spontaneous and vital, but used wrongly it becomes impulsive and self-destructive.
It is a source of small gratifications and fun, but also of conflict and remorse.
The Boss is the rational, reflective part that analyzes situations with clarity and tries to guide me to more conscious choices.
Imagine a man at a kitchen table with a notepad, a lamp, and a wristwatch - he checks the calendar, crosses out what's done, and writes a short command. Sometimes he speaks aloud: "Stop the phone at 22:00. Ten minutes of breathing."
He is the voice of reason that helps me take thought-through decisions and keep course toward my goals. He notices the warning lights - the smoke detector of my life - and he patches me up when I've hurt myself with bad habits. He can indulge, or he can accuse.
Unfortunately, he can be too critical and rigid, turning into a schoolmaster who scolds rather than a coach who plans. When he's harsh, I spend days under a closed sky.
And then there is The Cleric, the part of me deeply connected to faith and spirituality.
For years he acted as a vice-conductor, a vicar of the Boss, rotating almost democratically with the other parts - until the arrogance of the Pig forced the Boss to retake command, evacuating compromised wagons that became quasi-free zones: compartments no one wants to open for fear of the Pig's displayed obscenities - compartments that are probably empty anyway.
The Cleric is a source of inspiration and meaning, but also of sadness and frustration - especially when he clashes with other parts. He reminds me of values and beliefs and helps me spot patterns that give meaning to events.
But he can be rigid and inflexible too, making me feel guilt and inadequacy if my religious expectations remain unmet for long. He looks back and would like to return to a prior station; he simply doesn't understand that some departures are final.
These parts are often in conflict, creating a complex inner dynamic.
The Autopilot, when driven by the Pig's prompt, evades the Boss and leads me to lose time, sleep, and dignity.
This is my immediate, urgent problem - but not the only one and perhaps not even the deepest. Understanding this map of my personality would help me find balance among the parts and a way to live that respects synergy and harmony among them.
The locomotive of my Self wobbles on the tracks; debris and strong winds are frequent, yet it keeps moving.
The Autopilot must slow when needed, not race because the Pig orders it, nor slam the brakes and reverse because The Cleric demands it.
From what I imagine, once logic and harmony are found, conflicts healed, and new bridges and tracks built, the Autopilot could become fully operational again.
Mental jerk-offs? I don't think so.
This whole picture came as the intuition of a few seconds.
The need for change is pressing; I would like a mental map already in my head of which changes to make and how to make them.
Much concerns my environment, the recurring recreational commitments I took on, and my approach to responsibilities as father and husband.
I feel it is time for a change of pace. If doing what I want does not give satisfaction, and if shirking my responsibilities does not let me enjoy what should instead please me, the only path is a serene submission - a conscious and positive humility that removes the ballast from my shoulders.