The Shame of Existence

Yesterday, Rocky and I were talking about cleaning the house. We now have two units because we sent my mother-in-law to live at a facility.

We were just having fun, and she said that there were dishes in the sink downstairs from the Nomadic Spirit Trailer. “YOU!” she jokingly said.

And I just crumbled.

I’ve been falling in and out of these extremely dark moments. The darkest kind.

That put me instantly right back there. She didn’t mean a single thing by it. But emotions are what they are.

I’ve lived a life of shame. Of not being good enough. Of not being worth my space on this Earth (which you will always have an intellectual debate with me about whether any of our existences are worthy of the sacred nature of this planet). Of just being a total worthless sack of shit.

I’ve never faced that truth more than I have in the last month. Everything I do is not measuring up.

• Not being good enough to keep my mother-in-law in her house for the rest of her life — the only thing she wanted, and also a New Year’s life goal I committed to the last two years.
• I probably touched that foster dog, Chance, in the wrong way so that he bit me, and then I had to put him down.
• And then being accused of plagiarism in law school (which has seemingly now been reduced to over-sharing with the group we were explicitly told to “share our research” with). I’m such a loser piece of shit, I can’t even share things right.

I know what is happening. I’m transforming. I’m in that Chrysalis right now. But I’m going backwards. I was a butterfly, and now I’m turning into a moth. I believe that is what law school is. It’s a cocoon of transformation.

That sounds warm and nice. But it’s painful suffering. I suspect it’s harder for someone like me, who has lived free his entire life and is now, at age 54, putting himself through this process. All that has been baked in and hardened into cement must be broken up and turned into a paste that can be reformed.

But there is a part of me that is thankful for the punishment. The more I suffer, the closer I am to getting what I deserve. Suffering feels like the home I am meant to live in.

I’m glad to be a moth. I don’t deserve to be a butterfly. I want to disappear on the ground, in the dirt. I wish you would forget about me.

This is why I made this big spectacle over at the Nomadic Spirit Substack, where I said I was going to stop talking about me and focus on the larger collective spiritual journey we all live in.

I’m embarrassed by making that declaration. It was yet another performative show all about me. I can’t even disappear right.

And on cue, some of you were so kind and wonderful, asking me not to go away. Subscriptions over here are going up, I assume because they may think I’ll keep talking about myself on this channel.

I know people want the one-to-one human connection. I know it’s valuable. And I’m called to be that butterfly. To be your Madam Butterfly.

I am willing to give everything to the community. But doing it on a stage misses the point of being one in an ocean of billions. The transformation, the calling, is to turn the color of dirt and disappear on the floor of the earth. Not dead. But not known.

I don’t know why I’m writing this. Maybe it’s a swan song to a butterfly who is glad to be transforming into a moth. Maybe it’s yet another prima donna moment in an endless series of moments where I am just too vain to leave the stage. Maybe I’m giving you this one-to-one connection because some of you want it. It’s probably all of it.

I don’t know if I’m going to write another one of these self-centered pieces. I’ve been writing private journal entries that no one can read, which feels better to me. They serve to process thoughts. But I still think that, someday, someone might read them, which brings me back to that self-absorbed state I’m trying to shed.

I’m moving into a stoic monk-like state of mind. I feel like that is where my journey is calling me.

Ironically, the two writers who continually influence me repeatedly are Catholic monks who should not have been writing and podcasting with themselves front and center. I don’t know what to do with that knowledge. They lost sight of the anonymity and discipline of the life they committed to, and in return gave many of us light in the darkness.

That’s where I’m at today—desiring to disappear and yet hearing that telling my story brings value. Which path is ego, and which is being fully committed to the community?

All I want to be is useful. I don’t care what happens to me as the individual.