"O wad some Power the giftie gie us . . ."

There are many days -- many -- where I get a blue funk in my soul, and can't seem to shake it. It pervades my very existence, so that everything is colored with a delicate blue tinge -- say periwinkle -- and the shine has been rubbed off life, and everything is dim and dingy and slightly unreal. That's the way I've been feeling the last few days, and I don't know why. I mean, nothing in my life has really changed significantly -- things are just as much in stasis as they have been -- but every now and again the blue funk takes me, and I guess this is one of those "now" times.

Do you ever have a startlingly lucid realization of how others must see you? There is one person with whom I interact on a regular basis who always gives me the uncomfortable power to "see ourselfs as ithers see us", and I have to say, I can't think that Burns was really telling the truth when he begged for that power. Unless you have a shining soul, and are completely comfortable with yourself, you cannot possibly want to know what you look like through other people's eyes. I certainly don't, yet always get the opportunity to get a hint of what I must look like, especially when I talk with this person for any length of time (say, longer than 10 minutes). I always come off feeling like a right little bastard, too, I must admit. I mean, all the things I like about myself disappear into a mist of embarrassment and shame whenever this person says things which are totally justified and accurate and entirely too honest and . . . well, dammit, I guess that's the point, isn't it? I mean, I know he doesn't dislike me -- at least, I'm fairly certain he doesn't dislike me, and God help me if he does dislike me, because I'm relying on him to write me a fairly good recommendation for grad school. . . . I digress. Anyway, I'm reasonably sure (see how the blue funk takes its toll?) that he likes me, and I know his advice is well-meant, and is honest, and is certainly accurate in many ways (oh, the stings of accurate arrows!), but why is it that, whenever I talk to him, I feel like crawling deep inside myself, and not coming out?

I mean, the things we discussed today -- let me be honest with myself. I will be perfectly honest, and say that, yes, I think I'm fairly intelligent. God help me, I hope I am, because there are days when I feel like that is the only thing I have going for me. Do I think I'm smarter than everyone in the world? No. I know there are so many people who are so much more intelligent than I am, and I respect their intelligence. I do. I respect real intelligence when it manifests itself. I don't respect intelligence when someone says, "Oh, he's smart." I am paraphrasing and condensing both Holmes/Watson and Einstein (is this an unpardonable sin?) when I say that mediocrity knows nothing higher than itself, so really, how can someone who has mediocre intelligence be expected to recognize real intelligence? But I think that people think I'm a snob, because stupidity is one of the things that I have so little patience with, and when confronted with elements of it, I become frustrated and restless and impatient. I used to have more patience for it, I think. But lately it seems like I'm surrounded by it, and drowning in it -- and why should that bother me so much? Do I hate stupid people? No. I don't. But am I as kind and patient as I can be when confronted with them? Here's the thing, and no one who has seen me in "real life" will believe it: if I am confronted with someone who has a question about something, and who is genuinely struggling to understand a concept, I am as patient and kind as I would be with anyone or anything. I really, truly am (and I feel almost compelled to post a recent transcript of me in a tutoring session with someone to prove it). I know that the impatience that I sort of exude when confronted with stupidity might make it almost impossible for many people who know me to actually believe this, but it's the truth. But stupidity posturing as intelligence -- that is something I cannot abide.

So, what's my point? Well, I know that person-referenced-above thinks that I have too high an opinion of my own intelligence. I don't! That's the point! I'm firmly convinced that, while I might be intelligent, I don't have as much as I might wish, so I have to grasp firmly what I do have, and fight what I cannot help but feel is the sea of ignorance trying to swamp me. If it does, then the only thing I really respect about myself will be washed away, and what will I have left?

Something else that this person makes me realize is that other people must see me as utterly argumentative. Am I? I don't know. Perhaps that goes along with being insecure about my hold on my intelligence. So often I feel misunderstood, like what I'm thinking/saying isn't getting across, so, yes, I suppose I push a little bit harder than I should to make what I'm trying to say clear. Why should it matter if people misinterpret me? I don't know. I haven't thought much about that one. Does it matter if people attribute to me motives and thoughts and things that don't actually exist? I don't know that, either. I do know that I passionately feel certain things, and that there are times when it is almost impossible for me to bite my tongue, and not say them. I know that my excess of passion often makes things uncomfortable for other people, and sets me at odds with almost everyone I know (how can I forget Christmas? When I was the only one holding firmly to a particular point, feeling the social leper every second I spoke, but unable to back away from the discussion with grace, because I felt so strongly about the topic), and I know that it has a tendency to flare up at the worst possible moments . . . but there are so many times I bite my tongue! There are so many times I wonder at my own, what, cowardice? I admire people who can say what they feel without inhibition. I certainly can't. That's the ironic thing. Most people would say I'm argumentative, and that I don't hesitate at all to say what I feel, and yet, if they knew! I suppose they'd run far, far away if they knew just how often I'd like to say precisely what I'm feeling or thinking about a particular topic. Especially injustice in some way. That is almost unbearable for me to ignore, yet I find that I often have to. . . . If those who call me confrontational knew how often I didn't say something, or backed off, simply because I didn't want to fight, or argue, or was afraid of conflict, I think they'd be rather surprised. I wonder if I only argue with those people with whom I feel comfortable enough to argue? I hadn't thought of that. Something to explore.

One last thought on being argumentative (yes, I've been called this all my life). I remember once that my sister and I were arguing over something, and because I felt passionately about it, I got rather heated, while my sister stayed calm and cucumber-like through the entire argument. And at the end of it, my dad, who had listened to the entire thing, commended my sister on her ability to stay calm and cucumber-like, and told me that I would do much better in my arguments if I were to copy my sister, and remain calm and cucumber-like. But I can't! That completely contravenes my entire personality! I suppose I should just accept an excess of passion and move on.

What else did that person say? Well, one thing he said made me feel tangentially completely ashamed of myself, and has called into question something which continually torments me: am I selfish? That is something with which I struggle so often, and can never come to a quite-conclusive conclusion. I think I am -- horribly selfish. Yet other people -- most people -- disagree with me. But today, for example, this person pointed out a particular behavior of mine that was distracting. It hadn't occurred to me that said behavior was distracting, and I felt utterly ashamed of myself for not recognizing that my little fits of impatience and frustration over stupidity might be distracting to someone who shouldn't be distracted by them. "You don't do a very good job of hiding it," he said, and I know he's right, because I thought I needn't hide it -- the only person who could see my facial expressions was him. But then he said, and somehow this had just not occurred to me at all, "It's very distracting for me, because I feel like I'm supposed to do something." How completely selfish of me! I know I have a tendency to not think about how my behavior will affect someone, and what else can that be called but selfishness? Oh, my soul is on fire with shame over that one. I've tried, I think, to be aware of how my behavior affects other people. Apparently I do a damn poor job of it.

Oh, Burns, you were full of crap. I don't like knowing what other people think of me. It makes me even more dissatisfied with myself than I already am.