Peter Sheaf Hersey Newell:
Old Father William Balancing an Eel,
from "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland" (c. 1901)

" … whimpering like a wounded puppy."

I live in a DelicateBalance. I never know precisely how delicate my balance might be until some event or experience nudges me off my center. I sometimes seem remarkably robust with the sense that almost nothing could possibly throw me off balance. Other times, I feel precariously poised upon some precipice and likely to take a terrible tumble. Most days, under most conditions, I feel in no danger. I've always been most imperiled by forces I could not see coming. I seldom accurately anticipate the arrival of any unbalancing. These events bushwhack me into becoming their victim. I seem powerless to avoid these, depending upon my allostatic load, a rough measure of the level of burden I'm already compensating for carrying. When that load's been excessive, a feather in the wrong direction can tip me over and pour me out all over the floor.

I don't suppose I carry an unusually high allostatic load. I am predisposed to feel overloaded by some classes of insults, though. The Muse can attest that filling out forms generally transforms rational me into a hot mess. She usually steps in to save me some distress, a service for which I have always been grateful, for filling out forms does not seem to belong to that class of experience with which I will ever get more skilled. In those rare instances when I somehow managed to successfully survive the ordeal, I learned nothing in the same way that someone who survives a catastrophe never learns how to avoid them in the future. Forms happen to me. They reliably kick my ass. I am functionally defenseless against their intrusions.

Those who foist forms upon me might insist they intend to do me a favor. They line up their questions in fine order and provide spaces for my responses. Aren't these much better than administering some open-ended essay quiz? Perhaps for most, but not for me. I do not expect the universe to attend to my unique needs or abilities. It's nobody's fault that a form can so easily nudge me off my spot. I'm almost always able to refuse to complete the assignment. At my age and experience, they won't flunk me for refusing to try. I know what I'm capable of doing, and I've grown wise enough to hold onto my DelicateBalance as if my life depended upon it. It might.

I mention this personal foible here because every time I stumble into another form, I experience a little Exile piled upon whatever else I'm coping with. They each add to my allostatic burden and, depending on the volume, might crush my experience, if not necessarily my spirit. Forms only serve as one example of such threats. New experiences also often add to my burden. Changing any old routine or rhythm can throw me off my supper.

I recently signed a contract to publish one of these series. This innocent engagement has surprisingly overburdened my balancing system. It features lengthy emails directing me to do stuff I cannot imagine how to respond to. I'm called to make poorly informed choices without understanding the likely ramifications. I'm fed options as if greater choice might make it easier to decide. I've been up all night trying to figure out a reasonable coping mechanism. My best option might be to just back out of the deal and forfeit the fee I already submitted, imagining I might understand the breadth of the resulting insult. I'm as close to comatose as I usually get these days.

I begrudgingly recognize what I'm experiencing. I'm experiencing an Exile. My usual comforting routine has been rudely disrupted and I wonder whether I'll ever regain a reasonable rhythm again. I feel terminally distracted. I cannot focus on the long list of deliverables the publisher has piled upon me. I seriously doubt whether any author could comply with their list of demands. I fussed for a few days before drafting an initial response. I told my publishing assistant I wouldn't have any of the items she requested from me ready by our Monday meeting because I have been struggling to understand how to respond. Therefore, I cannot imagine the ramifications that choosing any option might produce, and I am frozen in ignorance. I need fewer examples. In some instances, I might need just one. I do not need, I insisted, any additional services, however modest the fee, so please stop overwhelming me with indecipherable alternatives. I just want this part of the process to be over. How do I make it stop?

During that Monday meeting, I might admit that if this process is the best they can offer, I'm not qualified to be one of their authors. I'm a writer, not so much a form filler-outer. I cannot believably pretend to be the later. I never could. I consider it a wonder that I ever made it through University after being accurately declared 'not college material' in high school. I'm more amazed that I survived in the insurance company for fifteen years, let alone as a successful consultant afterward. I managed to play around hard edges, with ample assistance from people for whom what threw me out of balance never overburdened their allostatic systems. I still sit up all night sometimes, wondering if I might not be viable. The first few days of any Exile, try more than patience. They induce an existential crisis. The shame alone only adds to the already overwhelmed burden. I spend the first few days of a new Exile curled up in the fetal position, whimpering like a wounded puppy. This might be my most sacred responsibility.

©2024 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

Tags: #Exiled, #PureSchmaltz