Solitary Vacation: What I've Learned About Myself (Or the Virtues of Self-hatred)
by Gabriel Cassidy
For the past week I have been sequestered in an undisclosed location in the state of Arizona. The intention behind the vacation was fairly simple; retreat to a quiet place, clear my head, finish the myriad of writing projects that I have heedlessly begun without any sense of direction, vault over the last few remaining hurdles of romantic heartbreak, engage with nature, and discover healthier alternatives to coping with boredom/anxiety/depression besides drugs, alcohol, and masturbation. Somewhat impressively, I have accomplished none of the aforementioned goals.
My behavior while alone is beyond concerning. I have discovered that, when not pressured by some authority figure, I have a tendency to dwell in a state of almost unacceptable laziness. I am constantly “searching for inspiration” and find the idea of dedicating myself to a singular task a herculean effort and, ultimately, a waste of time.
My week has consisted of the following activities: An immediate departure from my hotel to the liquor store to buy a bottle of Jameson, eating out for all three meals–surely gaining an unprecedented amount of weight in the process, smoking weed when inevitable thoughts of personal ineptitude begin raping my psyche, masturbating to the point where it can accurately be classified as habitual, looking at my computer and thinking “I should write something” but invariably electing not to, returning to the same coffee shop every morning to see the incredibly attractive and personable female barista, rediscovering faith in God and Catholicism but worrying that it’s too late and that my attempts at divinity will be deemed superficial in the eyes of the Lord, walking back and forth to all the bars by my hotel because I cannot sleep unless I am blackout drunk, spending more money than I can afford to spend on books by great authors in the vain hope that I will be able to experience some form of entertainment–maybe even derive some inspiration.
In a few weeks I will be moving to Detroit to pursue a graduate degree in philosophy. While there, I will be living alone in a single studio apartment. If this is what is to be expected of my reaction to solitude–the stunning lack of ambition, creative block, the apathy, the self-abuse–then I can say with complete and uninhibited confidence that I am more than terrified. A hedonist by trade, I have learned that I am not a natural hard worker. Rather, I have a proclivity to adhere to base pleasures–pleasures that are both easily obtainable and distract me from having to face the unrelenting fact that everything worth pursuing requires both honest effort and natural talent. Naturally, an engulfing fear of failure arises from the recognition of the latter.
What I lack is discipline and a sense of personal accountability. It is troubling to me that my immediate tendency during this short holiday was to find some point of reference to explicate my actions-or inactions, rather. However, I have no one to blame but myself. Paradoxically, the vacation was a massive failure while simultaneously birthing an unpredictable feeling of success. By being able to recognize my objective fallibility, I have been bestowed with the ability to disdain the person that I currently am, which subsequently lays the groundwork for future production towards who/what I must become.
Admittedly, I am somewhat allergic to essays that attempt to provide “answers” to personal malaise. Even more so to ones where the author superficially dons the proverbial robes of the great moralist and attempts to preach from his pedestal of wisdom about “right action.” I emphatically want to avoid taking this route. Thus, I elect instead to offer a narrative of my personal experience, laid bare for all who choose to read, for no other reason but to communicate my own realization. One–in this case myself–finds that they must face their inner nature in all its unedited truth. Its beautiful ugliness that stands perched before them in harsh hues that evoke both shame and disgust. Then, and perhaps only then, will the self-analyzed man be summoned toward the path of constructive self-destruction. In other words, one must learn to hate their current self–the incompetent self-loathing parasite–so that the current self may be destroyed and rebuilt into a more well-adjusted, optimally functioning being.
