For my first “Intoxicating Insight,” I’d like to begin at the end, with the final poem in my book, “Living in the Morning After.”
There is a longstanding Nietzschean principle, one abused more grievously than the Turin Horse itself, which states “what doesn’t kill me makes me stronger.” At no point was this ever truly applicable, but there may be a surface-level kernel of truth. It’s infinitely easier to latch on to that quasi-Stoic, ubermensch-ean approach. Rather than sifting through our pain, we can simply tell ourselves it’s made us better, that there was something wrong with us before we were hurt, and now we’re slightly less flawed for it.
When something doesn’t kill us, are we actually better for it? We aren’t immediately fortified, or armed with the knowledge to avoid our mistakes. In so many cases, by the time we’ve even begun to process and reflect upon “what didn’t kill us,” we’ve found ourselves in a similar situation. The compounding quality of pain means we may not get the opportunity to heal before another heap of shit is dumped on us. In the poem “Living in the Morning After,” the point isn’t to embrace the growth opportunities or fortifying qualities of misery, but to face self-destruction and stay afloat.
The assumption that pain leads to strength induces a sense of guilt. We believe we’re defective when we find ourselves depleted instead of invigorated. How couldn’t we? Vulnerability is anathema in a culture defined by brutality, pissing-contests, and hyper-masculinization. If we let ourselves ruminate longer than is acceptable, our value plummets and we’re defined by our stasis. Strength necessitates forward momentum. Reason dictates that rumination is a liability. To be strong is to be reasonable, and to be reasonable is to be strong. It’s easy to tell ourselves we need to get our shit together, deal with it, and harden ourselves to defend against the ills of the world. We are compelled by reason to do so.
Rather than understanding our pain and allowing ourselves to experience it, we rush the process of recovery. But what exactly does this accomplish? We are so quick to patch up the armor that we neglect to treat the wounds underneath. We fortify our shells and let our wounds fester. We feel ourselves rotting, but we don’t know why. The only recourse, then, is not only to persist, but to take pride in that persistence. Bearing that pain without ever understanding it, allowing the rot to metastasize and corrupt — that’s the reasonable choice, or so we’re told.
But this poem isn’t concerned with reason — or at least, not that type of reason.
When considering the poem “Living in the Morning After,” there is a resolve to “live with it.” However, that compulsion to live with pain comes at the end, after reflecting upon and reveling in it. There is no indication of pride in overcoming, nor is there any indication of foresight. In the midst of these emotions, all that exists is that moment. Getting from one breath to the next, monitoring pulses, comforting ourselves with mantras. Survival doesn’t necessarily mean strength. Maybe it’s just mindlessly flailing in the deep end to keep from drowning. Maybe it’s not about strength, but buoyancy. To “live with it” is to not allow ourselves to be consumed.
Living to see another day — is that not the most reasonable thing to do?
Isn’t the resolve to stay afloat strength enough?
There isn’t a guaranteed ending, no way of knowing how to move forward — no way of knowing if there’s even a forward at all.
We may ask ourselves if things will ever be better, if we’ll ever get stronger.
Things may or may not get better, but they’ll be different.