I often posit that people don't just live their lives in a void, just following some internal guide, but that we live our lives as a story, and implicitly or even explicitly modeled on an external story that we have, over time, internalized.
This is why some stories are so powerful, and why we tell stories and fairy tales and myths to ourselves and to our children -- these stories are lives encapsulated and give us guidelines and themes, some of which we will identify with and begin to live ourselves.
I don't expect anybody here is going to run off into the woods trailing bread crumbs, to ultimately fend off an evil witch to avoid being cooked alive. A lot of the stories we tell are not literal at all, but metaphorical; not true in a facts sense, but true in a heart sense.
And, like the air to the bird and the water to the fish, we may be intimately familiar with our lives, and with stories in general, but we may not connect that our lives are in fact echoes of these stories, and who we are in our life is also our role in that story.
People just are who they are... or that's how it sometimes seems. But some people also notice that they have choices in how they live, and can step outside of their skin and storyline from time to time, to observe and guide themselves into perhaps a better storyline. Maybe in this storyline they don't have to get eaten by the wolf, maybe they can jump over and hang with the lady in her shoe instead.
Or something. It's late. You'll get over the pain of my examples soon enough.
Another interesting point is that everyone is the hero in their story. Darth Maul? Al Capone? Prince Humperdink? Yeah, in his mind, he is doing what needs to be done, and he's the hero of his particular story. Think about it...if you could do better with your life, you would! But forces, internal and external, shape you and guide you, and at each step you make the best decisions you can, heroically or otherwise, even if the outcomes don't always match your desires. If you could have done better, you WOULD have; and maybe next time you will, with the wisdom of experience and the example of hindsight. And, sometimes, with a little help from your friends.
I know I personally wonder about some people who seem to go out of their way to be conscious and unrepentant dicks... but who knows what is really going on in their heads? In some way, it makes sense to them.
Now, what about a person who loses the sense of their character; maybe the writer was too ambitious with them and just lost control over the plotline; or things just up and exploded and all of a sudden, poof! They don't know their role in the plot anymore.
What a terribly disconcerting place that would be... with no internal sense of what decisions to make, what directions to go, what value they add and what complications they might contribute to the plot. It would become quite the imperative for them to find a comfortable role again, to fit themselves in to the big picture somehow. But what if all the good roles are taken? Or if stress is making it difficult to play anything but a bit part, a character actor at best, or "man in black shirt, mob scene 3"? What an ignominious thing....
Anyway, I sure as hell hope my author gets his act together soon. Or, um, for that anonymous hypothetical person. Yeah.
Ahh Stress -- we all know it, none of us probably love it, and yet it won't ever entirely go away. Of course, there isn't just the bad stress that we associate with the word such as having your truck die or running into some other unfortunate or expensive challenge, there is also "good" stress like marriage or buying a new car -- any huge change, in fact, can create stress.
Now, there is stress and there is STRESS. A little squeeze is good, like noticing that a deadline is fast approaching; it can get the creative juices flowing, brush away minor distractions, and help one focus on the important task at hand.
A big squeeze on the ole' brain is not so good. I make a living by my mind (yes, scary thought, isn't it?) and while some of my tasks can be done by rote and without much thought, most of them require a certain mental capacity. And it's because of this that I notice when my brain is working, or not working, and in what way.
Now, as a flashback, I note my childhood was full of all kinds of stress, and as a child I had certain parts of my memory that just didn't work, I assume not from an inherent dysfunction, but via the pressures applied by stress. Mapping, for example, and tracking silly things like people's names. Gone!
When I'm relaxed and refreshed, these parts of my mind work -- but they are still the first to vanish when I'm tired, hungry, or stressed.
As the pressure builds I notice my focus going from an expansive grasp of a wide range of ideas, plans, and tasks, down and down into a narrow little pinch on maybe one task right in front of me, if even that, as long as I don't have to think about it too much.
Every time it happens, I remember the story Flowers for Algernon, and worry that maybe this time it's Alzheimer's or Old Age or a Brain Tumor, but no, it's probably just stress.
I like being able to track several projects at once, to have enthusiasm for my hobbies which makes my job all that more manageable as well, to be able to organize and write and plan and execute. When these skills begin to vanish under a cloud of anxiety and overload, I miss them, and wonder what I'd be like as a potato on the couch and if I could live with myself that way. I also have dreams of escape, of vanishing and finding a miraculous world where this stress doesn't exist anymore... knowing full well that the stress would not only follow me but would be compounded by any such drastic change.
But still, there are times when I sure can't see my way to the light at the end of the coal pit.
I like being able to organize complex systems in my head and then create them, to find a path (even if it's not the best or cleanest path) through the bramble of a complex problem, and it worries me greatly when I can't. Someday maybe it will be Alzheimer's or Old Age or a Brain Tumor, but not yet, okay? I have things to do still, and people to teach.
Fortunately, stress doesn't last forever... maybe the glands get worn out, or maybe I actually make progress through the stressors and work things out... and I start to get my brain and motivation back. In fits and starts, perhaps, and then in larger chunks, but I see it. Maybe this isn't a coal pit after all, but maybe a copper mine... or with luck, gold.
We'll see.
Of course, this fresh baby brain of mine, newly dipped in the acid bath of a an infinitely long stressful period (so it seems), has to be handled with care. Not too many projects, not too many demands. Like that smurf I need to melt... he can wait. But some things, okay? Some things need doing.
So I poke at them and watch my mind for more signs of life.
Of course, I'm not done with stress yet... but with any luck, it will get better. Until then, maybe someone will get me a GPS mapping unit for my birthday.