On the Primacy of Personal Responsibility
preaching to a choir...composed of me
This is primarily a letter I’m writing to myself, a reminder I really need lately.
I’m only going to publish it because I think we live in a world where people not as lucky as I am—people whose friends don’t love them enough to encourage them in this truth (or perhaps don’t know this truth), people whose therapists care about being liked more than they care about really helping their patients be happy—might benefit from it, too.
But make no mistake, I am preaching to myself, to a great big mirror propped up in the choir loft, and every time I glance from behind the pulpit and catch a glimpse—yep. That is me.
Each Life Is A House
Life as a house is my favorite simile. It works on many levels, including this one—if each person’s life can be conceptualized as a house, certain things are true:
other people, primarily parents, lay the foundation of each house and put a basic structure in place.
some parents build the house entirely, without involving the child at all; they either expect to live in and run the house forever or just don’t have the patience (or love) to make sure their child knows how to live in and maintain the house that will eventually be theirs.
other parents enlist the child’s help actively and make sure the child understands as much as they can possibly pass on about what their house is made of and how to maintain it well.
parents are limited in what materials they can use—what they have access to, from the world/society around them, and from their own resources.
some parents are scrupulous and do the best job they can.
some parents are monstrous and deliberately fail to build a good house, creating as many problems as they can.
once you reach adulthood, the deed is transferred. Your house is yours.
you and you alone are responsible for the condition of your house.
you and you alone get to decide who can live in your house and share it with you.
there are many parts of the house only you have access to.
you are the only one who can do the work to maintain your house.
Depending on how good or bad a job your parents did, you may arrive at adulthood with a wonderful house that requires only minimal maintenance to continue being a fabulous place to live. You may have a solid body of knowledge behind you, and you may be well—prepared and motivated to do the work to continue living in your palace.
Or you may have something fit to be condemned, and only condemned, something only a monster would expect another human being to live in.
You may, in fact, have to take a wrecking ball to it and start over from scratch. You may have to learn how to build your house over while you’re living on the cracked foundation of yours, feeling the weather in ways that other people don’t.
You may get rained on while other people sleep soundly inside warm walls. The hailstones of life that bounce off other people’s well-thatched rooves might land on your skull and leave bumps and bruises.
Is this pleasant?
No. It hurts like fuck.
Is this a path many people would choose?
Of course not.
Is this fair?
Fair and unfair are concepts that belong in the province of children, but even so, I have an answer to this question.
Yes, actually.
It is fair, because your house is yours. You own it. You get to decide what to do with it, how to live in it, how to decorate it, where to move it, what to fill it up with, who gets in to visit, who gets to share it with you, what sorts of business are conducted, what disciplines studied, what gods worshipped, what lessons learned, and anyone you don’t want in your house anymore has to leave when you tell them to.
You can remodel it into something beautiful and stunning that suits your needs and your aesthetic, that lets you efficiently and enjoyably do whatever you want with your house.
Or not.
It is entirely up to you.
The knowledge, insight, wisdom, and rewards of rebuilding a house from scratch, if that is the position you find your house is in (whether by your parents’ decisions, or your own)—those are all yours, earned by doing the work.
The ultimate value of your house is decided by you alone.
Who and how you pass that value on to when it’s time for you to die? Yep, that’s up to you, too.
If your house is handed to you, well-made and furnished with the finest materials, and your parents painstakingly made sure you knew how every inch of it functions so you could take the best care of it?
There will still be surprises. People will throw rocks through the windows. Things will turn up missing, stolen. Natural disasters will threaten. You still have to do a lot of work. If you don’t, it’ll rapidly deteriorate and be worthy of condemnation in due time.
If your house is built in a war-torn shithole by parents who were too busy with their own houses to do more than toss you onto a slab of concrete, or if you grew up in a pastoral meadow of peace and beauty and were helped to build a mansion—either way, you’re the only one who can decide certain things.
Who gets to live in it?
What do you want it to be like on the inside?
What do you want its meaning to be?
What do you find beautiful enough to fill it with permanently?
Who is allowed to share it with you—who gets access to the hidden chambers and secret passages?
All of that is up to you, and only you.
Yes, It Is Fair
It is fair that you have to assume full responsibility for it.
Even if other people’s houses were in much better shape when the deed was transferred to that person’s name.
Even if other people’s houses were filled with expensive, high-quality furnishings.
Even if your parents took big, steaming shits on the floor of every room and you’re stuck with the job of cleaning it up.
Why is this fair?
Because it’s yours. Other people can help you locate the tools, but the work to maintain the inside is always and only up to you.
Each life is a house.
The condition of the house is your sole responsibility.
You are choosing what kind of house you want to live in, every minute.
The more thoroughly you own this truth, the more energy you will have to make it beautiful.
Every minute spent fighting this truth is irretrievably wasted.
Now I’m going to go print this little sermon, lay it atop my choir robes where I can’t miss it, and re-read it a few (dozen) times, until it’s sunk in a bit deeper.