Sabotaging Selves

My mood is darker than usual. Here I sit in this all-too-comfortable spot, typing away, where I have spent too much of my life. It seems I cannot escape it. Or I have not let myself escape it. And that is probably the most frustrating part.
/
A recent article in The Atlantic spoke of the idea that a single person contains a plural community, made up of different selves who have different desires and want different things. I am not speaking of schizophrenia or anything of the sort. Studies of the brain and, more so, of human behavior suggest that many people have something inside -- a compulsion? -- that makes them go down one path one day, then take another the next, all the while following the advice of what they always assumed was a singular, united governor. Put another way, one self tries to fool, if not sabotage, the other. Perhaps this is what Walt Whitman was referring to when he wrote that he was "large" and "contained multitudes." If each of us truly does have multiple selves, then happiness is an impossibility. This internal tug-of-war has been my struggle the past few years.
/

I am trying my damnedest to get myself together, to get the selves working toward the same goal. But it has not been easy. Given my state of employment or complete lack thereof, I have nothing to do but write and read and think and exercise: all solitary acts. It hasn't been too bad of a time, and sometimes even refreshing, other than the deleterious effects on my bank account. That said, considering all the time I have spent thinking about what happens next, it almost seems like my brain is a weapon that gets used against me. So I am keeping it busy doing things other than contemplating my current situation or the trajectory of my future. I read an average of one book a week. I am trying to learn to speak Russian. (Spasibo!) And I spend as much time as possible outdoors -- away from this goddamn computer.
/
I find I am at my happiest and calmest and most clearheaded when I walk in the woods, alone. Nothing matters out there. Nothing. Out there, among the trees and the wind and the sunshine and the uncorrupted air, nothing is a problem. And it seems walking in the woods is the only time that all of my multiple selves come into alignment. This week I took extended hikes to different parts of Pennsylvania: the Pinnacle in Hamburg; and Mount Tammany in Delaware Water Gap, on the western border of northern New Jersey.

/
It's February, so it is cold and remote in the northeastern part of the state. Between both hikes -- the Pinnacle takes about four hours to finish, Tammany about three hours -- I see a grand total of one person. Other than worry every so often about bears with empty stomachs coming groggily out of hibernation, the brain does nothing but think its way through the maze it has been given.