When Morgen turned 24 and had landed one of his first “real” jobs as an accountant to an audit firm, he ran into a dilemma in the way of studying for his masters degree, a 2-year program by the name of MACC. He was overwhelmed and numb and in need of a listening ear, so yesterday afternoon when Max and Pres and I sat together afterwards eating dinner on our Sunday and talked, exchanging stories about pets and life and hardships. Between sips of water and bites of wontons, I said the only thing I could think of that would appropriately take away a small portion of his pain: “I can't even imagine how he feels.”
It was by far one of the weirder things he's ever done, and I still scratch my head at what could have possibly motivated him to orchestrate a faux life for a blip in his reality. But I know this: I wanted him to feel understood. I wanted him to feel connected. I wanted him to belong.
Of course, exploring the relationship with his own image and expression is only part of his mission. The other? Everyone else.
Or perhaps it’s something larger – a call to us. I was glad that I’m not alone, and Max and Preslee were with me in these questions. Perhaps he's discovered his own version of balance – the beam that centers harmony and assertion – and he's working to perfect his lean.
Perhaps you agree that these questions might point to a larger issue, one where we begin to manufacture empathy. The kind where we camouflage our stripes and tell tales of invisible under lords.*
*Perhaps also, you are far more normal than I and have never once imagined a behavioral disorder. I’m predicting this to be likely.
