Looking Forward at Nostalgia

[CW: meditation on loss, grief, anger, childhood]

“Why are you making stupid noises?! Is it because you’re stupid?”

It’s the most British way to insult somebody. She didn’t call me stupid, my mum, she just said I was if I kept making those noises. There’s agency, choice, within the insult.

Now to be fair to her, the noise I’m getting yelled at for making is somewhere between a goat with bronchitis and a donkey doing an impersonation of an angry bull with cold. At a volume that would piss anyone off, complete with hormonal voice cracks. So perhaps, justified, then.

This, of course, is easy to rationalize as an adult and - perhaps partially because she’s no longer with us - to look back on fondly and laugh about. But it’s also the least egregious echo through time of a concept I’ve struggled to explain: that perfectionism isn’t always about ego.

I don’t even think of myself as a perfectionist - I just have an aversion to being wrong - and that aversion isn’t about trying to not look stupid, it’s about my sunburned psyche not being able to feel the heat of even one more insult. Easier to give up trying. Stop being me.

But the truth is, I never gave up, I just stopped talking about it. By “it” I mean, anything. Hiding letters from school, mumbling about homework assignments and then building a space shuttle replica from a cardstock kit that they didn’t find out was hanging in the atrium of the technology building until the end of year parent-teacher day. Protect myself and punish you, may you never feast off the joy you so frequently reprimanded me for having.

I’ve been aware of 8bit do for a while now, and dismissed them out of hand. Cute idea, not interested. Until I accidentally saw their Commodore 64 inspired keyboard. My first computer was a C64 and I used them up to and in parallel with early word processors and true PCs. Much of my programming of C64 BASIC led me to my first real hobbies and eventually out of my early dead-end IT career into something more prosperous. I had to have one.

Typing on it immediately lets me know that whoever designed the keycaps understands the C64. They have the 4-way scallop of the later-model ‘64 while retaining the lower profile and less pronounced scoop of the earlier model caps. And I can feel my 10 year old fingers in the microswitches they chose for the actuators; there are plenty of modern microswitches that would have replicated the spring-gated crunch-clack of the later model 64s, but the thudding clop of the earlier models was always more satisfying a platform on which to type. Somebody understands, and got everything right.

And the thing is, the keyboard has functionality too. The keys are programmable, and it has separate buttons, a joystick, and a couple of blank keys to repurpose as well. Not quite as programmable as some of the multi-mode gaming keyboards, but there’s something about the spacing or the feel of the keys that makes me type the way I used to do. That is, faster and more accurately than I have been of late, which is nice. They even made their logo look like the C64 font and delightfully replicated the late-70s, early 80s color scheme and overall style of the 64’s body.

And the thing is, thinking about the C64 reminded me of the times when I wasn’t being verbally assailed. Quietly hiding in my room writing my silly programs that did silly things with PEEK and POKE to animate sprites and other nonsense.

And the thing is, looking back like this reminds me of how far I’ve come.

I’ve mentioned before the loss of my wife about 3 and a half years ago now, and to tell you the truth, I’m still recovering from the loss. Not in the loud - or quiet - grief of it, but just in the way that so much of the process of getting there with her was fraught with grit-your-teeth-and-make-it-through life circumstances, and just when it seemed like we’d finally made it through everything and were maybe winning this time around, that’s when she passed away.

It’s been easy to give up, give in over the last few years. I’ve been so angry, so full of rage. It was easier to give up trying. Stop being me.

But the truth is, I never gave up, I just stopped talking about it. By “it” I mean the crushing depression. As a male-presenting person, therapists actively hate you and want you out of their way so they can deal with more deserving clients. Both of the ones I tried didn’t have anything to say. One of them even said “Well, it’s been over a year now [about the loss of my wife] so I suppose you’re over that now, right?”

That appointment only lasted 30 minutes and we didn’t have another.

The funny part is, she ended up helping me the most. The fury that dismissal sparked in me burned brightly for a whole year, and made me reflect on how much I’ve been driven by the anger that runs deep in our family. Both my parents had quick tempers and no stops between zero and 11. It’s been my life’s work to hold that anger close and not outwardly express it, which has meant that most of the time it’s turned inward with less than ideal results. But it’s also been a great source of fuel when harnessed appropriately.

The worst part about depression for me is the apathy. There’s no fuel where there’s no fire.

I was moving something heavy yesterday and I was struggling quite a bit. I’m pretty sick and tired of doing everything myself. You can see where this is going; rage kicked in and suddenly the object was where it needed to be.

The thread that ties all of this together is simple. I could have moved the object without the need for rage, but I was too scared to fail, even though nobody was around to see.

I just wish looking forward was as easy as looking back.

If I can see all the times life would have been easier if I just did the thing, then why can’t I see that life would be easier if I just did the thing?

Don’t look forward with despair, don’t look back in anger I heard them say.

At least, not today.