Thursday, November 03, 2005
The semester has gone by quickly, mainly because I've been busy with schoolwork. I decided to devote my last semester here to studying physics, forgoing my usual distribution classes and extracurricular activities. In hindsight, that might not have been the best idea, as it has led me to be exhausted and rather lonely. On the flip side, I feel as if I'm learning quite a bit of new physics, spending most of my waking moments staring at my general relativity and statistical mechanics texts. But the question that's been nagging at me the past few days is: is it healthy to get to a stage where the imposingly complicated equations describing the curvature of space-time around a black hole somehow feels more real and more tangible than the world of human interaction?
When that question creeps into my head, I take the advice of my mother who advises me to think not about myself but about others. In her pseudo-Buddhist way she tells me to banish thoughts that would upset me, and so making small forays out of my isolationism I get online to check up on friends. Some are doing fine, celebrating birthdays or starting new love affairs. Many are not doing well, dealing with serious illnesses in the family or dying relationships. "It's acceptable to worry about them," she says, "but not about yourself." I've found it's pretty good advice.
I think about the friend struggling to start a new life in a far away place, while dealing with the anxiety-driven chronic depression with which I am so familiar. "Why do your dogs make you happy," I ask of her seemingly singular source of satisfaction, between our usual boredom-induced chatter and pointless alliteration. "Because they are funny and adorable," she replies. Maybe she just didn't consider my question very seriously, but maybe she doesn't realize that it is in taking care of those canine creatures more helpless than herself that she finds a way to escape from the depressive cycle of self-pity.
And it is only in thinking of her and Lee and Panna and others charitable enough to keep in touch, that I manage to take my mind off of myself and get on with life.
When that question creeps into my head, I take the advice of my mother who advises me to think not about myself but about others. In her pseudo-Buddhist way she tells me to banish thoughts that would upset me, and so making small forays out of my isolationism I get online to check up on friends. Some are doing fine, celebrating birthdays or starting new love affairs. Many are not doing well, dealing with serious illnesses in the family or dying relationships. "It's acceptable to worry about them," she says, "but not about yourself." I've found it's pretty good advice.
I think about the friend struggling to start a new life in a far away place, while dealing with the anxiety-driven chronic depression with which I am so familiar. "Why do your dogs make you happy," I ask of her seemingly singular source of satisfaction, between our usual boredom-induced chatter and pointless alliteration. "Because they are funny and adorable," she replies. Maybe she just didn't consider my question very seriously, but maybe she doesn't realize that it is in taking care of those canine creatures more helpless than herself that she finds a way to escape from the depressive cycle of self-pity.
And it is only in thinking of her and Lee and Panna and others charitable enough to keep in touch, that I manage to take my mind off of myself and get on with life.
