I find it to be that time of the year where I reflect on my current situation, as well as the events from the rest of the year. Where a longing desire for warmth flourishes despite the cold grasp of Winter pulling pleasant memories of Summers into the recesses of my mind. Even though I hardly ever even post through this medium anymore, you can still look around at my last few posts and you'll really only see October (the posts made during my time in high school aside).
I just turned 21, so I guess I'll be nursing a glass of whiskey instead of a sweater to keep myself warm. Oh, what joyous inebriation. Let's begin.
In my Spanish course we are reading through a really interesting short story called Borges y Yo. For those unfamiliar with the story (and the language) I have provided a rough translation below (although I'd strongly recommend reading it in Spanish if you can. It loses meaning through translation, as many things do).
It is to the "other," to Borges, which things happen to. I walk through Buenos Aires and I delay myself, almost mechanically, to look at the arch of a hallway and the inner door [my translation here is a little rough]; I learn about Borges through his mail and I see his name in a list of professors or in a biographical dictionary. I enjoy hourglasses, maps, the typography of the 18th century, etymologies, the taste of coffee, and the works of Stevenson; the "other" shares these preferences, but in a vain way, so that it is like acting. I would be exaggerating if I said that our relation is hostile; I live, and I am allowed to live, so that Borges can develop his stories and it is through these stories that my existence is justified. It is easy to say that he has managed certain truths in his writing, but these pages cannot save me, maybe because everything that is good is only from language and tradition, and not from anyone else, especially not from him. Besides, I am destined to lose myself forever, and only one instance of myself will survive in him. Little by little, I am going to give everything up to him, although I am aware of his evil nature of lying.
Spinoza understood that all things want to continue in their existence; the stone wants to always be a stone, and the tiger a tiger. I will remain in Borges, not in myself (if I am somebody), but I recognize myself less in his books compared to others or compared to the laborious strum of a guitar. For many years I have tried to free myself of him and passed through the mythologies of the suburbs to games about time and infinity, but these games are Borges' now, and I will have to imagine other things. So therefore, my life is an escape and I lose everything and everything else belongs to oblivion or to him.
I do not know which of us writes this.Summ'd up, I think it is really interesting how Borges sees a piece of himself as an other. Someone he sees in books, in music. Someone who is almost detached from himself, a separate mind. I don't think he's crazy, or schizophrenic, or anything like that, though. It's hard to explain, and having to understand this through the context of another language is even harder.
So what does this all have to do with what I am writing about? Well when reading this, I felt that I could most certainly relate. One thing that's really been on my mind these last few months is my name. For many who knew me in high school, I just went by the name I always did: Nathanael. Or Parker, depending who you are.
However, as I reached college I felt it was necessary to provide some sort of change of character, so I shortened my name down to Nate. My initial justification of this was that it was so much easier to deal with. No more teachers calling me McDaniel, Mathanyull, or spelling my name wrong in a million and one ways. I believe this was the original intent of the change, and everything else is me projecting my current state of mind unto my past self. Perhaps this is even true.
However, I do not think this is the case. While this was initially my intent behind the change, I feel like suddenly, through Nate, I started to be the person who I wanted to be.
As a brief intermission, I suffer from social anxiety and a plethora of problems pertaining to it. It's something I have suffered from since middle school, and I try not to let it become me, but I am forced to stand up to it nonetheless.
Nate didn't have anxiety. He got good grades. He had friends and went out and had fun. He worked hard at his job and met everyday with a smile. He partied, and lived that college life that the movies and everyone else always talks about.
I wish that was me, but it isn't. The truth is, I get so self-conscious about my anxiety that I don't want to go out. I put off doing my homework because I would rather gratify myself now and work later. Sure, I've got friends. But when I sit down and think about all the people I can truly trust, the count barely makes it onto one hand. I enjoy my job, but I worry that I could do so much more for them. I can hardly get out of bed in the mornings.
But what the hell am I then? I like to read. I like to write. Some piece of me wants to write music and learn to play guitar. I want to get out and travel. The stars fascinate me, and I hope to one day teach.
I think the issue is, I am having an identity crisis of who society thinks I should be, and who I want to be. I know, I should be myself. But I've seen that side, and it's not good. I dealt with a whole can of shit in my senior year, and I was in a really bad place. That was who I saw "Nathanael" as.
A crushing realization hit me today, that I just need to move on. From everything. I think the part of me that wanted to be called Nate wanted to do this because that past life was over. I had graduated. I had a job. I was turning over a new page. Forgetting the depressive episode I suffered from through my senior year and trying to be a happier, newer person.
I feel I was successful in some way, but doing it for all the wrong reasons. Not to make myself happy but quite the opposite. Instead, I was trying to put out some image of myself for others to like. I told a lot of lies, and I really wasn't true to myself. But the show had to go on, so I didn't stop.
So I am moving on from the past. Starting today. After reading Borges y Yo, I was strangely euphoric; I felt happy for the first time in who knows how long, the songs that had stabbed daggers into my heart suddenly seemed meaningless, and I felt like I was experiencing the whole world and its joys for the first time ever. It was beautiful.
I guess my overall goal is to really start trying to be myself again. To be that guy who wears goofy bowties to school. To enjoy the things I enjoy doing. To accept myself for who I am. Not only that, but to also make positive changes in my life, and improving myself as a person. Because there is nothing wrong with wanting to have good grades, or good friends, or a good time, but only if I don't try to change who I am in the meantime.
I know it's going to be a lot of work, but I'm finally ready to get at it.
And hell, maybe I'll even try Nathanael on for size again.
Until life's next great adventure,
Hobey ho,
-- Nathanael Parker