This might sound a little shocking but I sleep at least 9 hours a night. Sleep is one of the obsessions of the biohacker. If I’m lucky I might be able to get to ten. It’s always a sign of me doing poorly if I am not sleeping a TON.
It’s usually the first sign I am not adequately reserving time to bring down my central nervous system into rest and digest. I’ll stay up till 11pm and then it’s a hop skip and a jump to only sleeping seven hours.
The best combination of effort and exertion for me is only adding in specific necessary stressors during the day and give ample time to recovery. Much of my work requires focus and information processing and synthesis. And that isn’t improved by overwork and exhaustion.
Nevertheless I am still carting around a lot of lessons from my childhood about the value of hard work. More is better. More hours is best. And this is a fine and noble thing if you do work intelligently with your goals in mind. Simple exertion is sometimes the best option. But not always.
A trigger warning for folks. This post contains discussions of poor eating habits, food trauma and possible eating disorders.
As much as I like being a bit of a loner, I am often comically inept at having to take care of myself. My husband has been busy with work and I have been left to my own devices to manage cooking this week. Let’s just say it went a bit poorly. Or at least it was comical. My husband is practically a chef and I can barely microwave a hot pocket.
I’m exactly the sort of person that Soylent, the tech bro reinvents NutriSlim beverage, was designed to appeal to. I am easily overwhelmed by the thought of even basic cooking. I’m extremely picky about texture, smells and presentation (thanks autism). And if I’m really honest I just don’t want to eat anything that isn’t perfect. So if it’s not exactly what I want, I might has well have a nutritional slurry. I hate to waste calories in unappealing food so I’d rather get in my macronutrients and vitamins.
I’m embarrassed to say that I did exactly that for a few meals this week. I tossed 2 scoops of protein powder, a scoop of vitamin mix, and some GI stomach support into a glass of water and called that dinner. Even lower rent than a packaged shake but probably healthier. I got 35 grams of protein out of this bad boy.
A protein slurry in water.
I realize this sounds like I’ve got an eating disorder. And maybe I do. Before anyone has a clue that I might be autistic I had some knock down drag out battle of wills with doctors.
One of the defining traumas of my childhood was my pediatrician telling my mother I needed to eat more dairy. I hated the stuff and refused milk & yogurt as small child. My doctor’s solution (and I am not making this up sadly) was to not allow me any food till I ate dairy
That story doesn’t end well. I didn’t eat the dairy. I passed out. Starving kids into compliance is perhaps a bad idea. But it did leave me with a sense of comfort and control with fasting. If I cannot eat for any reason I know I will be able to manage feelings of hunger. So not a total loss.
I have enjoyed some of this feral goblin mode stuff but I’m glad that Alex is back at his cooking now that the week is over and it’s Friday. Pulled pork is definitely better than nutritional slurry. Well, sometimes slurry has its place.
I’ve noticed a deepening of my sense of personal responsibility for my own experience of daily life since we moved into our home in Montana. It’s the first home my husband and I have ever owned our own house. And we jumped into the deep end with a rural farmhouse.
The freedom to do whatever we like to our own property has been intoxicating. Even small changes are deeply satisfying. Or perhaps it is because they are small that they are such an effective demonstrations of how it is possible to derive a sense of satisfaction by taking responsibility for absolutely everything.
Let me give an example. I always apply moisturizer after washing up so my hand tends to slip on rounded knobs. That used to be a thing I’d just tolerate as a small inconvenience. But now that we can do absolutely whatever we like to the house we decided to just replace all the door knobs with door handles. Just said fuck it this little annoyance simply doesn’t have to be something we tolerate. We can take responsibility.
Is this giving us a false sense of control over our lives? Maybe! Being human is still mostly a chaotic experience. But we don’t have to tolerate any of the little bits of chaos over which we now have total control. Did I have control before? Also yes.
I could have stopped applying moisturizer and accepted needing dry hands to turn a doorknob. There are obviously always ways to take responsibility for any situation. But it sure feels great to take responsibility for living the way you prefer. Which in my case is with soft hands.
Nice and easy does it every time. Or so says Frank Sinatra. Who I’ve got to be honest doesn’t seem like a dude who isn’t pushy. I’m extremely pushy so I get it. Taking things slow isn’t my vibe. But if he can take it slow maybe so can I.
I’m getting the urge to rush again as my body settles into Montana. The better I feel the more I test my boundaries. Today I stupidly sat in an uncomfortable chair when I fell into focus fugue on something I was rushing to get done.
The problem now of course is To simply hold your horses To rush would be a crime ‘Cause nice and easy does it every time
Frank Sinatra
I should have taken an extra beat and settled myself somewhere comfortable to work but I didn’t. I was rushing by all the stops along the way to finish my task. I still got it done but I wish I’d followed Sinatra’s good advice. Rushing was indeed a crime against my spine. Perhaps for the rest of the week I’ll just play on repeat in my head “nice and easy does it every time.”
I don’t maintain boundaries well. I am embarrassed by my needs. Ashamed even. I’m afraid if I maintain the boundaries I actually need I’ll doom myself to a life of loneliness. No one is going to go out of their way to hang out with someone who can’t do fun shit right?
And so I let my own needs slip. I agree to do things. I tell people sure I’ll meet up. I’ll agree to go to a meal together. I pretend to be excited about going somewhere. I yield to the expectations of a normal life. And then I hold myself together as long as I can. I’ll get some enjoyment out of my time with loved once. But after a few days if I don’t get rest and recovery I will be in a rough spot.
It always ends in a crash. When I know I could simply draw firmer boundaries and take time before it becomes a crisis. My loved ones are confused by how I continue this cycle. Why didn’t you say something? Why did I agree. And I honestly don’t know sometimes. Because I’d never agree to do anything ever if I had my way.
And I’ll admit I’m afraid that if I never do anything eventually I’ll be forgotten. That no one will go out of their way to be with me. I can tell myself that this isn’t logical. That this is just the scared inner child who experienced being left alone when she was small. That reality doesn’t reflect reality any more. But I’m not so sure. Maybe my nearest and dearest will still come out for me. But I do think we live in a harsh world where we mostly don’t care if others disappear into their homes forever.
Menstruation is mostly an exercise in pressure changes. Cramping and bloating make for a good reminder that we are ugly bags of mostly water. Or if you prefer meet popsicles. But I don’t recommend flying while menstruating as the pressure changes, aka jet belly, that wreck havoc on your lower intestines don’t really need the extra help.
I’ve got a theory that shorter flights are worse for jet belly because all the fluids and gases that are rumbling about inside you have less time to adjust. If you’ve never noticed that your lower half is bloated and rumbling after a flight, well, lucky for you. But I’m pretty sure you are also lying.
Our flight got put in a holding pattern over Denver as we waited for a thunderstorm to clear out. I could not have asked for a better metaphor as my cramps kicked into high gear. My chatty seat mate kept trying to engage in conversation and all I could think was I’ve got to shut my body down.
And then as if being crampy and bloody wasn’t embarrassing enough I started humming a twenty year old techno tune from Madonna. Yes, I remember the lyrics to her James Bond song.
I’m gonna destroy my ego
I’m gonna close my body now
This turned into a mantra as the pain and discomfort threatened to kick my stress responses into a cortisol spiral. I began a series of breathing exercises and kicked myself into a meditation so deep my poor husband couldn’t reach me. Madonna might have had a point. Ego destruction and closing down your body has a place during intense pain and discomfort. It only has to hurt if you let it.
A close friend of my husband and I sent me a sweet check in text message today saying he hoped I was feeling better. Our friend is a sincere and empathetic person. Because I know know he does care for me sincerely I said how I was actually feeling to him. I was feeling confused.
lol I never know how to respond to this sort of thing as occasionally I get regular person sick but I’ll never not be disabled 😂😭
“Better” is a bit of a loaded term for me. It suggests so much. Absolute improvement like my flu is over suggests better. Or perhaps improvement that will stay put forever is better. Or maybe it’s a good day in a string of bad ones and that’s better. Better can be though of in both binary and scale terms.
Default healthy people think of better as binary because once they’re good enough they are “better”. The flu passes. They get back to normal. But if you’re chronically ill or disabled then better is on a scale and you never get fully “better” but rather ebbs and flows. I don’t always know how to articulate this to abled well people.
If you have someone in your life who you think of as not being very social, I’d like to ask you to discover if it is because of a physical disability or ongoing chronic disease. Maybe they aren’t social as they can’t accommodate your pace but they would love to spend time together with you if you accommodated their pace. A lot of folks are chronically ill. And we like to be friends with you. We just need you to recognize we require some accommodations from you.
I attended a schooling system developed by an Austrian man called Rudolf Steiner. It’s commonly known as Waldorf schools. One of its hallmarks is a lack of comparative grades.
Steiner believed that grades forced teachers and students into a curriculum that taught to the middle of the class. The tyranny of the median student meant slower students felt stupid and frustrated and smarter students felt bored and disengaged. Only the average child did well in a graded system. And no one is ever truly average. A graded system fails us all.
Waldorf schools teach a pedagogy that is holistic and geared to meeting each individual child at their unique level. It uses a variety of techniques like having children make their own textbooks (called main lesson books) so they are never conforming to some idealized medium standard. At it’s highest ideal it means being compared only to your past performance. You don’t compare yourself to other students. There is no ideal grade at which a student will think “I am the best” as that is fruitless. How will the best student ever bother to improve if they always get a perfect score? Grades hamper the cultivation of genius.
This sounds idyllic right? Always improving yourself without external markers that say you are good or bad or even average. That’s the dream. A perfect schooling system. And if I am being honest it absolutely was what provided me with the curiosity and desire to always be learning. It sustains my career now.
But every shining light casts a shadow. A system without grades. A system without comparisons or averages also means you never ever get to win. I never got a gold star as child. I never got an A. I never got a trophy. I missed out on millennial laziness cultural tropes. I would have killed for a participation trophy as a kid.
Because nothing was ever good enough. Because I always knew I could do more. I could always improve. There was no resting on your laurels. I never got a chance to say I was the best in my class. I never got to win. Because I internalized there was no winning. There was only ever improving. I was always improving. I felt like Sisyphus. Except the bolder never rolled down the hill. The hill just kept on going. The mountain had no summit. It was only improving. I never felt like I could rest. I never felt like something was good enough. Because tautologically it couldn’t be.
I’ve yet to balance the shadow cast by the light of Waldorf school. I desperately want to feel like I’ve won. Not because I need to feel better than anyone else. But because I struggle to stop. I yearn for rest. To have a finish line. To have some mile marker or trophy or award that says I’ve done enough. One day I’d like to give myself that. Maybe I should find a trophy or ribbon store and buy myself something that says “That’s Enough.”
There is a Reddit sub that is imploding at the moment called Antiwork. I didn’t really follow it before the extremely online moment where one of their mods demonstrated that internet people don’t generally have media training. But one of the amusing bits of antiwork culture got into my feed because someone had an awkwardly worded tweet about young people demanding at least two days off of work in a week.
Before I became a member of the capital class I wasn’t really much of a weekend person. Or even a time off person. I was in a constant battle to get over the line of survivable earnings in America.
But then the magic of Silicon Valley shined on me a few times and I’m suddenly no longer desperate about medical bills or having enough savings for an emergency. This has had the dramatic effect of completely reordering my priorities. Now I take restorative rest time seriously. Knowledge work and good judgement rely pretty heavily on be clear headed. There is no premium afforded for being exhausted. If anything it will lose you money.
So the antiwork folks might have a point. If so much of your life is spent in survival you never have a chance to really be human. And being human is oddly more lucrative. I stand a better chance of doing even better because I can orient my life around bigger outcomes. That attracts more people and more money and improved my chances. And yeah success compounds if you are lucky. If you can get out from under survival. Which is I suppose the hard part.
Daily overstimulation is starting to rub the pressure sores of America’s downer induced depression into a full blown mental health crisis. Like, even more than usual. War with Russia in the imagination, inflation and market volatility coaxing a recession, culture war skirmishes over every basic fact in the pandemic, along with generalized anxiety are fucking us up focus wise. And every propaganda outlet and publicist on the planet is having a field day.
I’m listing to The Prodigy’s Breath and mumbling lyrics like pyschosomatic insane. So I guess, come play my game?
I try not to listen too much music as it overstimulates my nervous system to be honest so its kind of rare for me to have Spotify playing. I’ve got a finely tuned propaganda radar that benefits from sensing subtle shifts in tone and extremely online discourse. I can’t do that if I’m too worked up from the rough stimulus that comes from pop music. I mostly use it to run my portfolio and investing but sometimes I think I should really be used in the service of some autocrat or multi-national. I’m the doubt factory
I guess it is nice I can make a buck during the end of the empire. I’m one of those post structuralism, post-capitalism babies. A regular Bane “born to the darkness” of hyper objects like markets and climate change. So I guess I’d better be molded to being the kind of villain that survives a world of agitprop and meme warfare. Thanks Adbusters!
Frankly I’m having a fucking blast. Sure I’m scared I don’t have my homestead property all shored up for civilization hiccups, but I’m of the mind that the crumbles is going to take a while so might as well enjoy the gains that come from a massive upheaval. I guess its true venture capitalists are ghouls. I mean at least we aren’t private equity carrion birds but it is wild that the system rewards a class of people that invest in creative destruction.
But even as I want to paint myself as bad, I do stereotypically think what venture capital does is often good. We can’t predict second order effects. Chaos theory doesn’t let us see all the future paths. But stochastic as shit power laws are just math so we’ve got a shot at accidentally making things better. So while the agitprop tries to sway your opinions might I recommend you just Breath? That is my professional advice.
