I don’t mean to be creepy, I’m just naturally good at it.

I mean – and perhaps it’s just because I work in communications – but it’s not uncommon for me to meet people whom I am familiar with, but who don’t know me. I have read about them, heard about them, or, perhaps even written about them.

This provides for awkward social situations.

I try to play it cool – asking conversational questions I already know the answers to – but sometimes I slip and start telling a complete stranger all about their work.

Then I have to apologize and explain that I am, in fact, not a stalker. Awkward.

This penchant is made worse by the fact that I tend to be detail-oriented, with, as I like to say, a creepy memory.

If you ask me where someone is, rather than give a simple answer, I’m too liable to respond with, “I don’t know, but – I saw them going that way X amount of time ago, and given the fact that they said Y yesterday and that I overheard Z, I would infer that they are in such-and-such location.

…And then I have to apologize and explain that I am, in fact, not a stalker. Still awkward.

In some ways, this goes back to my earlier observation about the fine line between being crazy and being thoughtful.

That is to say, what is it, really, that makes it awkward that I have information about people?

In many ways, I think, it feels like I’m not supposed to have this information because I’m not supposed to care that much about other people.

Certainly not about people I’ve never met – I should properly no nothing about them. Colleagues and acquaintances I should have a passing familiarity with, but there’s definitely a line where…past that you seem like a creeper.

But what’s funny is I’m pretty sure most people are accidental creepers.

While some people try to edge away politely when I try to explain that I’m not a stalker most people just laugh, sigh, and share – ah, I know exactly what you’re talking about.

Long weekends are great, but, man, those short weeks really make you pay for it.

I suppose the problem is that while there’s only 4 days of time, there’s still 5 days of work.

And even though you know it’s coming, somehow, it’s always surprising.

The week before, you’re working away, cranking things out, doing your thing, whatever. Then suddenly, around Thursday, you find yourself saying, oh man. I guess that’s not going to get done on Monday.

And maybe you feel like you should panic about that, but, you know, it’s hard to panic because there’s a nice, long weekend coming up.

So then you go and enjoy your weekend. You relax a bit and roll in Tuesday morning feeling pretty darn good about the world.
And things go okay for the first few days. But about half way through the week – on Wednesday, no I mean Thursday, because Wednesday is Tuesday in a short week – you realize you don’t know what day it is and there’s a ton of stuff to do.Maybe then you panic, I don’t know.They say that taking time off helps you be more productive. And I can believe that. I’ve had more than one bout of staring dead-eyed at a screen trying to will productivity from my zombified form. Not a great use of time.And as much as I enjoy relaxing over the long weekend, by end of day Friday on a short week, I find myself thinking, man, that was a long week……If only there was a long weekend coming up so I could recover.

Earlier this week, someone told me she worried that she was a horrible person. Some minor thing had gone wrong. So she thought she might be horrible.

Don’t worry, I told her. Everyone is terrible.

I’m pretty sure that’s not the answer I was supposed to give, but…well, I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t think she was prepared for my unusual brand of support.

But, seriously, though – while everything, of course, is a matter of definition it’s fairly simple to argue that everyone is terrible, or at the very least, that the vast majority of people are terrible and that, should any non-terrible people exist, there numbers are so small as to be negligible.

What, you may ask, is a terrible person?

Well, by other definitions a terrible person is just a person. A terrible person has imperfections. A terrible person makes mistakes, A terrible person makes choices they know they shouldn’t make and a terrible person has a litany of regrets.

But, really, everyone does that.Everyone being terrible would certainly explain why these self-complaints are so common. I regularly call myself a terrible person. And I know I’m not alone in this challenge. On a daily basis, I hear several people use variations of the expression, sometimes electing to modify a different aspect of their identity.Apparently, everyone I know is a terrible mother.Some of them might even be the world’s worst mother, but they’ll clearly need to fight for the honor as so many of them seem ready to claim it.The problem, you see, is that for one moment these women did any less than dote on their child with the sickening love only found in a doped-up ’50s housewife. Perhaps they were worn down from the fact they hadn’t slept in years or showered for days. Perhaps it was just a helping of day-old mac and cheese not siting well. One may never know. But they are clearly terrible mothers. Indeed.I’m pretty sure that’s how it works.The so-called proper response to the concern of being horrible is to reassure someone that they are, in fact, not horrible. That they are being too hard on themselves.And yet this answer seems unsatisfying.Just because it’s normal or natural to do something, doesn’t mean that it’s an okay thing to do. How much historic racism and sexism have sought refuge behind these terms?Even assuming something less inflammatory – is it okay to lie just because that’s a reasonable impulsive reaction?Maybe or maybe not, but it seems like a healthy question to debate.And that’s where the challenge in this self-loathing terrible comes from. Everyone makes mistakes, but writing your mistakes off as something that’s okay because everyone’s doing it…doesn’t really work.So, yes, I suppose, you are a terrible person.But that’s okay because we are all terrible people. Striving every day to be just a little less terrible than the day before. Some days we’re a lot more terrible, and other days we find our better selves.But we’re all pretty much terrible.So, next time you call yourself terrible or horrible or some other presumably self-deprecating term, ask yourself this – what do you wish you could have done instead? What strategies and tactics could you employ to change the way things played out? Would you, really, like to do anything differently next time?And, of course, remember, you will always be a terrible person. Try your best to be better, but you will continue to fail. You will always be imperfect.You will never be a doped-up, TV sitcom, ’50s housewife. And that’s okay, because you probably don’t really want to be that person anyway. I know I don’t.Just be your terrible self. Your terrible, wonderful, broken, strong, challenged and struggling self.And then try again tomorrow.

The meaninglessness of life, or, if you will, its absurdity, is a key tenant of some philosophical traditions, most notably existentialism.

Søren Kierkegaard and Friedrich Nietzsche are generally regarded as early thinkers in this Western tradition, though I personally find the creative works of Albert Camus and Samuel Beckett particularly enjoyable.

But the existentialists have a problem: if life is ultimately absurd, why not just act like a self-centered fool at all times?

This challenge is a step beyond the derogatory thought that those without religion are incapable of having morals. It’s more than an absence of punishment or reward that presents an issue. An acceptance of the absurd is an acceptance that life is meaningless – that ultimately nothing makes a difference. How you treat yourself doesn’t matter. How you treat others doesn’t matter.

Nothing matters.

There are, of course, ways to address this challenge.

A simplistic response is that, irregardless of deeper meaning, corporeal actions have corporeal reactions. That is – assuming a society is governed by ethical laws, people will behave ethically because otherwise they will face social punishments. Similarly, there may be social incentives to behave well.

I find this argument unsatisfactory.

In our society, for example, many people are willing to cross ethical lines to pursue a social reward of wealth, but not everyone is willing to do so. Of course, you don’t really know how you’ll react to a given ethical situation until confronted with it, but – if social regulations were all that kept people in line, it seems that we’d have a lot more unethical people than we already do. Maybe that’s just me.

I would imagine that different people are likely to respond differently to an absurd world. Depravity nor morality are intrinsic.

Camus explores these different reactions in The Plague.

A small city is quarantined after an outbreak of the (presumably bubonic) plague. Faced with almost certain death, residents react in different ways. Some turn to God. Some turn to alcohol. Some just whither away. And some try to help.

Ultimately it doesn’t matter to the universe which path a person took.

But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t matter at all.

If the question to an Existentialist is, “How do you make everyone moral in an absurd world?” The answer is you can’t.

The very meaning of morality becomes muddled in such a world. Each person chooses their own actions, and each person’s actions are their own to choose. There is no right or wrong about it.

But if the question is, “How can I be moral in an absurd world?” The answer is…do the best you can.

There is no clear path of morality in a meaningless world, but you can develop your own sense of right and wrong. You can create a moral code and live by it as best you can.

Other people will do what other people will do.

Your own moral code may involve persuading others to live what you would consider a more moral life. Or it may involve ignoring other’s moral inclinations.

It ultimately doesn’t matter.

But at the same time, it matters very much.

It matters to you.

It probably also matters to those around you, but – their feelings may or may not matter to you.

Seeing an absurd world doesn’t mean devolving to depravity. It means making your own choices and doing the best you can. It means trying to be the person you want to be – not because it’s the moral thing to do or the right thing to do, and not because any being here or beyond will judge you for your actions.

It means being the best person you can be because, really – in a world where nothing truly matters, what else is there?

I was reading an article the other day which expressed a point I’ve often heard:

Depression is an illness.

I’m no mental health expert, but I know I’m supposed to agree with this. And, perhaps, I do. In theory.

Reinforcing depression as an illness is important for a number of reasons:

People shouldn’t feel shame for seeking help. You wouldn’t feel weak for seeing a doctor after a heart attack, for example.

People should know they can’t control depression. You can’t “snap out” of depression the way you might change an outfit. Dedication, determination, effort – these may not make a difference. And that’s no one’s fault.

So it is important to remind people that depression is an illness. An actual issue. It’s far more insidious than a bad day.

Yet, when I read this the other day, it suddenly stuck me as…judgmental.

If depression is an illness, that implies that there is something wrong with people who are depressed.

Someone who is a mental health expert once told me that depression is only a problem for a person who finds it a problem.

That is, every person has the right to be depressed if they choose to be. A person with depression only needs treatment if they feel they need treatment. If they’re not living the life they want to live or being the person they want to be.

I gather this is a contentious idea within the mental health community, and, perhaps, reasonably so.

The right of depression resonates with my support for the unconventional, but this approach raises obvious concerns as well. If someone thinks they don’t deserve to live, is it then their right to act on that belief? Are we obligated to intervene, or should we rather defer to their individual freedom?

If a person feels this way because they are ill – does that change things?

In Madness and Civilization Michel Foucault documents the history of “madness” throughout the modern Western world. Different things have been considered madness at different times, with different explanations, and, of course, different solutions.

The beauty of Foucault’s analysis is that it goes beyond the articulated scientific layer of the day.

Yes, he explores the scientific rational behind the humors, documenting the believed impacts of hard bile or hot blood. But he goes deeper than that, connecting the medical understanding of the day with the moral beliefs that went into it – and the moral implications which come out of the diagnosis.

It is easier and comforting to think of today’s medicinal understanding as pure science, untainted by the bias of morality. But this interplay is perhaps easier to see when looking back at “medicine” which is pure quackery.

Foucault recounts stories of men whose mania was attributed to “excessive intercourse,” and of women who “invent, exaggerate, and repeat all the various absurdities of which a disordered imagination is capable.” This women’s hysteria, one doctor warns, “has sometimes become epidemic and contagious.”

And, lest you laugh this off as the foolishness of the Victorian era, remember that it wasn’t until 1973 that the American Psychiatric Association declassified homosexuality as a mental disorder.

So, there may be some legitimate science to it, but it seems there’s some social construct to it as well.

Is depression an illness? Well, it seems I don’t know.

When he was 35 years old, Siddhārtha Gautama sat under the Bodhi tree. For 49 days and 49 nights he meditated.

He achieved enlightenment.

Thereafter, he was known as Gautama Buddha, or, more simply, the Buddha. The enlightened one.

The word “enlightened” here, of course, is a translation – a stand in for several Sanskrit words with subtle meanings. “Enlightened” seems to be the best English can do, and this translation is really borrowed from Kant’s understanding of Aufklärung.

But, lax language aside, Buddha achieved permanent enlightenment, a state of peace and calm, free from suffering. Nirvana.

Presumably, one who has not achieved Nirvana cannot accurately conceptualize it, but, what I find perhaps most remarkable is the idea of this as a permanent state which lasts throughout an enlightened one’s life.

One can almost imagine fleeting moments of enlightenment: I imagine renaissance paintings of light and color. Brief gasps of clarity and meaning. Synapses straining toward meaning. Rare breakthrough which fade to an ineffable haze.

To imagine this as a lasting state seems inconceivable. Eventually the details of life settle in. One gets hungry or tired or busy or distracted. If you achieve enlightenment, do you get up and go to work the next morning? Answering emails and dropping kids at soccer practice don’t seem enlightened tasks.

If you manage to experience even a brief moment of awareness, can you hold on to that state, that enlightenment, while going about your mundane tasks?

In Herman Hesse’s Siddartha, he chronicles another man’s journey to enlightenment. His hero, a contemporary of the Buddha, takes many paths in life. He is a Brahman, an ascetic, a businessman. He leads all these lives, abandoning each when he realizes he is no closer to enlightenment than he was before.

All he finds is meaninglessness.

But Siddartha is a tale of enlightenment. The end of the story finds him, near the end of his life, as a ferryman by the river.

He leads a simple life and has all he needs.

He has achieved Nirvana.

And just as Siddhārtha Gautama’s journey was a path – a moderation between indulgence and deprecation – the path of Hesse’s Siddhartha is needed to be a journey as well.

He needed to starve, he needed to feast, he needed to love, he needed to lose. It was only by experiencing all this, living all these lives, that he ultimately found that rare, lasting state of peace.

In Buddhism, we all strive towards enlightenment. It is a long, possibly endless journey, spread over many lives. We are born, we experience, we die, and we are reborn to experience more. Some lives we get closer to enlightenment and some lives we lose ground.

And, perhaps, some day, in some life we can have that crystallizing moment, that brief insight of clarity, that sacred spasm of meaning.

And if you can hold on to that moment, you become buddha, become enlightened, achieve Nirvana.

You are free from suffering and reborn no more.