Crawling into a cave

I wish I had sword blessed by the Pope, Martin, so that you could slay your two hell-spawned Doppelgangers. But, alas, I am short that part of my armory.

I wholly understand anger at people who attempt to sympathize with your position without knowing what you've gone through. They offer platitudes like, "Oh, I'm sorry, but don't worry, it'll sort itself out. You'll find something." Yes, I know that, you don't have to tell me that. Don't pity me. What makes me even more mad, though, are the people who think that they have the solution for you. "You should go to law school," one woman at church told me. She's a high-powered corporate attorney who only works two weeks a month and flies to New Orleans to do it. "I'm really not interested in being a lawyer," I told her. She looked like she'd swallowed a blowfish. She was offended that, even in my bad luck and soul-searching, I still had dreams and principles that I would follow and would shun her profession altogether.

Experiences like that are why I seclude myself away, crawl into a cave. In my town, that's not too hard, since I have no friends left here. I go to church sometimes but more often than not don't, not out of lack of faith but out of desire to avoid people asking about my future. I don't go out on Friday nights: I sit at home and read essays by Faulkner. Most of the people from college I don't talk to, because all we can do is talk about the past; we are living worlds apart now and have no common ground. So my day-to-day consists of much job searching, much reading, and far too much thinking, alone.

I am a hermit, existing but not living. But until I find a path out, I would not trade it for your position, Martin. For I do not have to worry about exposing my dignity or self-worth to others' disdain. I can hide, disappear, until I am ready to emerge with a path to travel. I am willing to pay the price of loneliness if it means keeping my sense of self-worth.