The Space Between Delusion And Reality
Over the winter, I became obsessed with the theory of quantum consciousness. It was an acute period of loneliness for me — not only had my entire life been uprooted, but in the process I had also lost the most important people in it — and I reveled in this romantic notion that we were all connected under a layer of shared thought; that the Universe had deeper meaning than simply existence; that existence itself was an act of magic. I had always been playful with my imagination, and after an episode of such severe trauma, I developed the mindset that creativity and anguish lived in parallel: that if I could sink to these extreme depths of despair, so too could I tap into my ingenuity in unlimited measures. My pain had to be good for something, and it was easiest to find that outlet in the realms of my consciousness.
I had discovered poetry on a whim, and it terrified me. Writing poetry was not an intentional choice I had made; my poems found me. It was my only way of communicating with my abandoned inner child, and I was so scared of her and still so angry at her, that I simply had no way to process the pain of self-betrayal. I simply wasn’t ready to access the love and compassion I needed to heal myself. I didn’t write to read: I wrote to forget. It was the only way I could dispel my emotions without having to truly feel them.
And in order to write, I got high. Weed became my only solace in this time; like a toxic relationship, I was dependent on that feeling of numbness even while I resented myself for my addiction. It truly felt like I had nothing else to live for, and the only way I could convince myself to keep going was by submitting to the fleeting pleasure of disorientation and peace that accompanied intoxication. Getting high gave me the safety to speak to myself, but it also gave me the capacity to ignore my own voice.
In order to block the words in my head, I rewrote them. I convinced myself that it wasn’t my voice that I was hearing, but other people that I was tuning into. I needed to believe in something larger than myself, and that came in the form of quantum consciousness: if we exist as individual atoms in the scope of the Universe, then wouldn’t it make sense that we were all working together towards something? If hive mind exists in animals, and the distinction of humanity is “I think, therefore I am” — that we have access to a level of cognizance that other beings lack — then wouldn’t it make sense that we would evolve to consciously connect with our hive mind? Wouldn’t it be magical if we learned to tap into the frequency of other people’s thoughts?
I decided, emphatically, that this was what I was experiencing. The notion of tangible creativity — in the form of my poetry — was frightening, but here, in the sanctity of my own mind, I could experiment with my imagination without having to create; without having to see the product of my pain. Weed became the link between my internal world and my connection to others. I was too lost to bear the thought of physically surrounding myself with people, but I desperately needed the companionship that I was denying myself — and so I learned to invent this connection by seeking safety in abuse.
At the same time, I continued to cultivate my self-hatred. Getting high in itself was a form of punishment; it was such a deviation from my authentic self that I couldn’t commit the act without feeling ashamed — and that spurred my addiction with growing intensity. I hated myself; I was abandoning myself; I was provoking myself.
It is fascinating how rational insanity can seem when you’re surrounded by strangers — and I had become a stranger to myself. I once read that conspiracy theories aren’t crazy, that their basis for logic is simply skewed. If you ask a theorist to explain to you their beliefs, you’ll find it leads to a very thorough, analytical thought process — just with the wrong fundamentals. I was convinced there would be repercussions for my memories, that somehow, I had put myself at risk for trusting myself, and in consequence, I believed I was a target.
That’s the thing with delusion: you become the crux of your own morbid fantasy. Everything revolves around you; everything happens for you. My imagination, my only escape, had invaded my understanding of reality.
I had completely, entirely, and utterly lost myself.
And yet, even in this construct of emptiness that I had created to exist in, somehow, I was able to be found.
Maybe quantum consciousness does exist, because even in the process of actively abandoning myself, strangers were still able to hear my cries for help. Even while I was deaf to my own voice, people were ready to listen to me. It didn’t matter that I had neglected myself — that I no longer believed in me — other people were willing to give me the strength to return to myself when I had lost all will to fight.
Empathy is the space between delusion and reality.
Empathy is what drives us to act when all else seems lost. I didn’t feel like I deserved to find myself again, because what gives me the right to lend myself compassion when I was the root of my pain? What gives me the right to keep trying, when it was so clear that I was ready to give up?
It was only through the love of others that I was finally able to let go of my crutch. I wasn’t an addict in the chemical sense; it wasn’t a dependency on weed that had kept me hooked. I was — I am — addicted to safety, and in the depths of isolation that I had barricaded myself, intoxication became my only way to feel safe. And despite the shame of being found, I needed people to look for me — I needed people to look after me. Once I learned to let myself be loved, reality didn’t seem like such a threat to my existence anymore.
I could create my own safety once I was given the space to heal.
The most rewarding part of this process of rediscovery has been extending that same love and compassion to the people I have found along the way. I think everyone finds themselves lost at one point or another, and it is not through our responsibility, but our desire to help that we can guide each other back to our paths. Even when we deny ourselves of the love we need to survive, we can trust other people to love us until we are ready to grow again.
Empathy is the root of love, and it is only through this altruism that we are able to find ourselves in others. It is only through the act of radical compassion that we are able to separate truth from illusion.
*This is Part [2] in a narrative triptych submitted as individual pieces to the Medium Writers Challenge. You can find Part [1] here, and Part [3] here.
