I Don’t Fucking Know Is a Legitimate Conclusion

I don’t know.

There. Apparently that’s something we’re not supposed to say anymore.

Everyone seems to have an answer for everything.

Relationships. Dating. Marriage. Divorce. Trauma. Sex. Intimacy. Happiness. Parenting. Childhood. Why somebody didn’t text you back. Why somebody texted you too much. Why your relationship failed. Why the next one will work.

There’s a fucking explanation for all of it.

And if there isn’t, give the internet five minutes.

Someone will make a video.

I’ve spent a lot of time over the last few years trying to understand people.

Other people, obviously.

But increasingly myself—which turns out to be considerably less fun.

I’ve read about attachment. Emotional intelligence. Vulnerability. Trauma. Relationships. Philosophy. Love. Free will. Grief.

I’ve sat in therapy.

I’ve thought about my childhood.

I’ve thought about things that happened much later in life.

I’ve replayed relationships in my head until there probably wasn’t anything left to replay.

And I’ve learned some things.

I’ve also realized how easy it is to convince yourself that because you learned the vocabulary for something, you suddenly understand it.

You don’t.

At least I don’t.

And that’s sort of how this thing started.

Not because I figured life out.

Almost the exact fucking opposite.

Somewhere along the way we decided everything needed an explanation.

And preferably a short one.

Your ex was a narcissist.

You’re avoidant.

They were love bombing you.

You have abandonment issues.

They’re emotionally unavailable.

You need boundaries.

Know your worth.

Protect your peace.

If they wanted to, they would.

Never settle.

Heal yourself before you get into another relationship.

Jesus Christ.

Some of that is probably useful.

Some of it might even be completely right.

But human beings seem considerably more complicated than the little boxes we keep trying to shove each other into.

Maybe somebody didn’t text back because they’re emotionally unavailable.

Or maybe they were busy.

Maybe someone came on incredibly strong because they were manipulating you.

Or maybe they were excited.

Maybe you stayed in a relationship because you have some deeply rooted childhood attachment pattern.

Or maybe you loved the person and leaving somebody you love is fucking difficult.

Maybe it’s several of those things at once.

That’s the part I find interesting.

I’m not against psychology.

Quite the opposite.

Understanding why we do things matters.

Understanding where our reactions come from matters.

Childhood matters. Trauma matters. Previous relationships matter. The shit that happens to us matters.

But I think there’s a difference between using those things to understand ourselves and using them to explain everything away.

An explanation isn’t necessarily an excuse.

And a label isn’t necessarily an answer.

Sometimes I think we get so busy analyzing life that we forget to actually fucking live it.

Dating might be the best example.

We meet someone and before we’ve even figured out whether we enjoy sitting across a table from them, we’re trying to determine their attachment style, communication style, childhood trauma, relationship with their parents, emotional availability, and whether the fact that they took four hours to respond to a text is some kind of red flag.

Can we just go on the fucking date?

Maybe they’re wrong for you.

You’ll find out.

Maybe you’re wrong for them.

That’s always a fun possibility nobody likes talking about.

Then there’s philosophy.

I love philosophy.

Marcus Aurelius has some pretty damn good things to say about control. Erich Fromm wrote beautifully about love. David Whyte has made me think differently about grief and vulnerability. Daniel Dennett made me question how much of the story I tell about myself is actually me. Christopher Hitchens could take a comfortable assumption and beat the living shit out of it.

I can read all of them.

Agree with some of them.

Disagree with some of them.

Underline half a book.

And then close it and still make a spectacularly bad decision on Tuesday.

That’s life.

Knowing something and living it are two completely different things.

Marcus can tell me I don’t control another person’s actions.

He’s right.

That doesn’t mean I’m suddenly going to stop giving a shit about what that person does.

The interesting part isn’t pretending I’ve reached some enlightened state where nothing bothers me.

The interesting part is figuring out why it bothers me in the first place.

And whether I should do anything about it.

Sometimes the answer might be yes.

Sometimes it might be no.

Sometimes…

I don’t fucking know.

I also don’t want this to become one of those places where I explain what everybody else is doing wrong.

That would be convenient.

And complete bullshit.

I’ve fucked things up.

I’ve moved too fast.

I’ve confused sex with intimacy.

I’ve overthought things.

I’ve said too much.

I’ve said things at the wrong time.

I’ve tried to get answers from people who either couldn’t give them to me or didn’t want to.

I’ve convinced myself my interpretation of something was obviously correct.

I’ve probably spent more time trying to understand somebody else’s behavior than examining my own.

That’s an uncomfortable sentence to write.

Which probably means it’s worth writing.

There are things people have done to me that I still think were wrong.

Understanding my own part doesn’t require pretending otherwise.

That’s another idea I have trouble with—the notion that self-reflection somehow means taking responsibility for everything that happened.

Fuck that too.

Sometimes somebody treats you badly.

Sometimes you treat somebody badly.

Sometimes everybody contributes to the mess.

And sometimes two people can walk away from the exact same relationship with completely different stories about what happened.

Which one is reality?

That’s another article.

Trust me.

That’s what I want Damaged at Best to be.

Not advice.

Not therapy.

Definitely not another person on the internet telling you how to live your life.

I want to talk about relationships.

Sex.

Intimacy.

Childhood.

Trauma.

Alcohol.

Family.

Loss.

Dating.

Love.

Loneliness.

Philosophy.

Technology.

Aging.

The ridiculous shit we tell ourselves.

The ridiculous shit other people tell us.

And all the baggage we carry around while attempting to make sense of any of it.

I want to question things that everybody seems to accept without thinking about them.

Including things I believe.

Especially things I believe.

Maybe I’ll write something and six months later decide I was completely wrong.

Good.

I’d rather change my mind than spend the rest of my life defending something just because I once said it out loud.

I don’t think life has an instruction manual.

I think we desperately want one.

Maybe that’s why all those little sayings are so appealing.

They make complicated things feel manageable.

Do this.

Don’t do that.

Know your worth.

Set your boundaries.

Recognize the signs.

Follow the rules.

Then everything will work out.

Except sometimes you can do everything “right” and still get your ass handed to you.

Sometimes you make the wrong decision and something beautiful comes out of it.

Sometimes you love someone and it doesn’t work.

Sometimes you shouldn’t love someone and you do anyway.

Sometimes you leave.

Sometimes you stay.

Sometimes you know exactly why.

Sometimes you spend years trying to figure it out.

That’s more interesting to me than pretending there’s a formula.

So that’s what we’re doing here.

Talking about shit.

Thinking about it.

Arguing with it.

Occasionally laughing at how fucking ridiculous all of us are.

Trying to understand ourselves a little better without pretending we’re ever going to finish the job.

And if we get to the end of something and there really isn’t a clean answer?

Fine.

I don’t fucking know is a legitimate conclusion.

— Just James