If ever I worried about any of Brendan Schlagel’s three "flavors of epistemic uncertainty for the blogger” (via Tom Critchlow)—uncertainty of purpose, uncertainty of effort, and uncertainty of reception–I would never get anything posted, especially given my ongoing existential crisis of apparently perhaps not even registering any sort of noticeable presence in the world.
It’s not just being forgotten about at the local diner for more than half an hour. It’s that I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve nearly been run over by drivers when I have the right of way. It’s that I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve had bus drivers not wait three seconds for me to cross the street or simply close the doors in my face. It’s that I’ve lost count of how many psychotherapists covered by my insurance I’ve contacted to try to find someone who understands, or is willing to understand, the trickiness involved in being a late-diagnoses adult autistic only to not even receive any kind of response.
The hilarious irony of how angry I’ve been getting at Joker is that I am a sad, pathetic, mediocre white guy with mental health issues. It’s just that when the world seems to conspire to punish me for leaving the house, I don’t go assault people, I do what I guess any responsible, real-world crazy person would do: I curl up on the couch and stare blankly at the wall, nothing that might otherwise potentially make the rest of the day worthwhile holding any appeal to me whatsoever.
I’m fine being a sad, pathetic, mediocre white guy in a world that’s finally waking up to the fact that there’s far more to the world than sad, pathetic, mediocre white guys. There’s not a lot about my voice that’s especially in need of hearing, or especially in need of heeding, or even especially unique.
It would still be nice, though, if I felt like my presence really was at least noticed, in just the small, every day ways. My only impact upon the world can’t be dragging my family into financial ruin.