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Unfit for purpose


There were days I wanted to kill myself. Lots of them. Days I couldn’t get out of bed. Days I did and wished I hadn’t.

There are things I’m ashamed of. Things that hurt to remember. Some things I’ll never talk about.

There was greed. There was failure. There was foolishness. There was cruelty. There was cowardice. There was dishonesty. There was arrogance. And there will be again.

It was always me. Not the devil. Not my disease. Not my upbringing. Not my brain. Not my genes. Not my race or class or gender. Not society. Except inasmuch as those things are also me.

But I’m not flawed. Not imperfect. Not defective. Not despicable. I’m human.

A human isn’t a means to an end. Not part of a plan. Not a step on a path. Not a cog or component. Not a term in an equation. Not something to be looked down on and judged – which is a ridiculous concept when you think about it.

A human just is. That’s sufficient.

Artifacts, institutions, organisations, ideologies, corporations, belief systems, designs … on the other hand are tools. They are meant to serve a purpose. They are meant to have a function. They are supposed to work. If they don’t I show them no mercy.

From → autobiography

One Comment
  1. ‘There are things I’m ashamed of. Things that hurt to remember. Some things I’ll never talk about.’

    I’m relating to the raw pain and honesty of this post, and it got me thinking about the perverse strength that can be born through pain and suffering, a kind of brutal, ruthless, unwanted strength.

    When people say ‘What doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger,’ it’s like a psychological rape, there’s no control, no autonomy over the ‘strength’ that we gain, without our consent.

    ‘A human just is. That’s sufficient.’

    …which is strangely comforting and soothing, reminding us of what we are, lest we break under the pressure.


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