I want to share two extremely unrelated videos.

First is this section of a video from Adam Savage’s Tested YouTube channel (from 2:53 to 5:34). Here, Adam is asked what kind of career one could choose that would enable them to learn and tell fascinating stories. (Turns out that great stories don’t necessarily come from interesting lives, but instead from lives that are incredibly interested in great stories. The difference between a good storyteller and great one, in the end, is how passionate they are for the subject matter.)

The second video I want to share is this one:

Confused yet?

Good.

Let me tell you a story.

If you are looking for a career path that is utterly replete with interesting stories, you wouldn’t have to look much further than the lead researcher in the Federal Bureau of Control. Yes, that’s right: the Federal Bureau of Control. If you haven’t heard about it, then the FBC is doing its job.

Of course, now that you have, just relax. The agents will be on their way to your location shortly.

…

Anyhoo, Dr. Casper Darling is the man in charge of researching all of the crazy and unexplainable things that the FBC investigates on a regular basis. If it’s weird, Darling knows how it works. If it’s supernatural, Darling wrote (or delegated one of his subordinates to write) the field guide about it. If it’s extraterrestrial, extraplanar, or extradimensional, don’t worry; Darling or one of the other executives in the FBC has almost certainly written up the paperwork already to establish an embassy there/nothere/nowhere.

Long story short, there is very little about the insanity and weirdness of the Control/Alan Wake/Quantum Break/Max Payne universe that he doesn’t know about, and nothing that he isn’t cheerful and enthusiastic about disassembling, quantifying, and documenting.

Until everything that happened with Ordinary, that is.

Except, in the end… it didn’t work.

(This is all of Dr. Darling’s videos. The specific one I want to reference is at 21:40 to 24:18.)

What was that final lesson from Hedron, before Dr. Darling became… whatever he became? Well, we don’t know specifically, but the result of that lesson was Dr. Darling deciding to record a rather insane music video. And he recorded it specifically for someone he has never met.

Do you know the definition for the word “hero?” Yes, yes, I know the Firefly definition: it’s someone who gets other people killed. (And honestly, Zoe’s not wrong.) No, I’m talking about the textbook definition of the word.

A hero is “a person who is admired or idealized for courage, outstanding achievements, or noble qualities.”

We don’t get to “meet” Dr. Casper Darling in Control, at least in person. By most accounts, he’s an absolute dick. A typical middle-level manager who happens to be an upper-level manager, always delegating the useless tasks to everyone beneath him and handling all of the most significant projects on his own (while doing his best to take credit for everyone else’s hard work). Emily, his second-in-command, doesn’t often have the kindest of words to share about Darling when speaking of him, although Emily does admit that his infectious enthusiasm for scientific discovery is one of the reasons she was so excited to work under him in the first place.

Also by most accounts, Darling shared the selfsame weakness as the rest of the executives in the aptly-named Federal Bureau of Control: he did not trust others to do the right thing when it really mattered. He did not explain well enough the catastrophic danger that would soon befall the FBC. Nor did he think anyone would believe him if he tried. Worse, he knew the other executives were already under the control of that other form of resonance he mentioned: the resonance that would soon be called the Hiss.

Darling knew he couldn’t save everyone in the FBC. And he likely believed that his efforts would not be enough to stop the Hiss, or even stall them in any major way. That must have been a devastating truth to digest. He knew he did not have the power to save the day. He knew he was not the hero of his story. And I believe Hedron told him as much.

But Hedron revealed to him who would be the hero of his story: Jesse.

And the first thing (or last thing?) Dr. Darling chose to do was make the corniest music video in history, in order to encourage Jesse forwards, demonstrating that he was rooting for her success despite being inexorably stuck within whatever distant alternate reality he ultimately fell into.

Like Casper Darling, I know that I am not the hero of my story. I can’t be. I have never had the power to force my story to a happier place, never mind a happier endpoint. I have lost 85 pounds in the space of two years, and I’ve learned and experienced a lot of things that many people have never even had the chance to learn or experience. But I am not the ultimate deciding factor behind the number of panic attacks I will experience before my life is over; not truly. I know two things are true for me: I will (likely) never have complete control over the illness in my mind. And I will never have control over what other people choose to do.

But if I can’t be the hero of my own story… maybe I can discover someone who will be. Or maybe even find someone else’s story, a better story, to be part of. If I can do that, then I am determined to root for them to succeed, no matter what dark hole I fall into.

Like Adam stated in his video, it doesn’t really matter what you choose to do in this life. If you are passionate about that thing, and permit others to be just as enthusiastic, just as passionate, just as nerdy and happy about that subject… then not only will you find stories worth telling, you’ll be able to tell stories worth hearing. And if you end up with stories like that, then you’ll likely have lived a life worth living.

I previously shared this on Facebook (this originates from r/AntiWork):

This is a fear of mine. And I fear I’ll be stuck with this perception of how I believe social interactions work for the rest of my life.

It doesn’t matter if I don’t believe it. It doesn’t even matter if it’s technically “not true,” to say nothing of any legal considerations. But it must be true, to some degree, if only for the fact that other people are observing similar perceptions. I mean, it only has to be true for a few people to be effective anyway. Like my future managers. My future teachers. My future leaders. My future dates. My future friends. My future children. Anyone who might find themselves in a position of authority over me who does not understand what I’m going through on a daily basis. To say nothing of anyone who might not like me, or simply doesn’t know me.

This is, perhaps, the one concept that darkens any future I might envision for myself. Because the amount of “tokens” I might have to balance any possible employment opportunity (or relationship of any kind, really) that might arrive in the future is, ultimately, completely outside of my control.

“But you shouldn’t worry about the things you can’t control,” I hear you saying. I know. I understand that worrying about things you can’t control is usually a waste of energy. But I can’t pretend that things like this don’t keep me up at night. Especially since it’s become such a recurring theme in my life, and a thought that I cannot escape simply because I perceive it continuing. Over and over.

(Though sometimes, at the very least, the effort of trying to think your way out of an unsolvable problem is evidence that you haven’t given up. That alone is more hope than I’ve had in a while. That’s what I’m holding onto at the moment, despite everything else.)

My ultimate worry is that I will never be “good enough” to live a life worth living (never mind make enough money to support myself and a potential family) because my perception of what is “good enough” will never be something I can control. I’m not certain that will remain the same forever. But I know for a fact that with I do not currently possess the mental fortitude to change this aspect of my reality. It’s not that I lack for willpower. On the contrary, it’s my abundance of willpower that makes my worry of never being “good enough” that much more real. My “willpower” appears to serve no purpose besides leading me into dead end after dead end after dead end. I lost 85 pounds in two years because I wanted to, and my self-esteem has not improved in the slightest. I endeavored for as long as I could through college, and every passion led me into nothing more than disappointment after disappointment. I served a mission in Los Angeles for as long as my body allowed, but I ended up feeling hollow and listless despite my best intentions.

All of this frustration has led to this point in my life. And while I would certainly not want a do-over for any of it, none of it compares in the slightest to the amount of work it’s going to take to repair my broken self-image. The task might even be impossible; it certainly feels that way now. It doesn’t matter how much weight I lose, or what foods I eat, or how talented I might become at writing. It doesn’t matter how handy I might become with computers, or how I much I might learn about history, or even how sincerely I might believe in something. In fact, it doesn’t seem to matter what I do at all, because I am not the deciding factor of my fate, and I never have been. I am not the hero of my story. Without a direction, I am a thing to be acted upon, not a thing that acts. And the more I try to act, the more I am acted upon until I am no longer a useful thing at all.

Not so long as I have a limited number of “tokens” available to me.

Let me put it this way: the one thing no one tells you about depression (or *any* form of mental illness) is how much time it takes to treat it, day in and day out; even good days require a laughable amount of concentration just to make myself “normal” enough to operate in polite society.

Can’t miss a dose of medication. Can’t listen to that music today. Can’t think those thoughts today. Can’t share that opinion today. Can’t speak to that person today. Can’t look at those words today. Can’t look at those pictures. Can’t go looking for that kind of idea. Can’t research those things. Can’t watch that movie. Can’t play that game. Can’t reveal what I truly think about that topic.

Can’t.

Can’t.

Can’t.

Can’t.

Can’t.

Don’t.

Don’t.

Don’t.

But then you do. And you’ve offended someone. You’ve broken something. You’ve worsened a friendship. You’ve made an embarrassing mistake. It might not be your fault; that doesn’t matter, and it has never mattered. It’s not up to you. Your day is over. And here’s a panic attack for your trouble. (Though it might last for two or three days. It might be intermittent, and return with a vengeance. Who knows? Both the penalty and the severity change all the time.)

And I have to spend a “token.”

No one in this world cares enough to manage a person like that. Can’t even *pay* people to care, much less identify the underlying problem. And even if some would, *their* managers sure won’t. Business doesn’t work like that. Dating doesn’t work like that. Nothing works like that. No one has the time. Besides, mercy can’t rob justice. Not when justice (or whatever messed-up version the world is always throwing around) is so busy looming over absolutely everything these days.

I don’t know how I will ever hold a full-time job. Not unless that job belongs to me, and me alone. Unless I separate myself from society and other people, I will never be able to set my own definition of “good enough.” Not even one I might think to pretend. (Except I know that’s not how “commerce” works, so I’m pretty screwed either way.)

The one thing I worried about when searching for a diagnosis besides bipolar was that my *actual* diagnosis would reveal itself to be something even more difficult to control and explain to other people. This fear has very much come to pass. And now I feel I have a choice: either I get to figure out how many “tokens” every job will be kind enough to gift me for the rest of my life, and endlessly jump from low-paying job to low-paying job until whatever “professional” reputation I might acquire crashes and burns. Or I need to spend a considerable amount of time and effort figuring out how to separate myself from everyone’s faulty expectations of the kind of person I ought to be… including my own.

I haven’t the foggiest idea where I’m going to find the time to survive either decision. But maybe I won’t need to… if I can find the real hero of my story.

Now, don’t get me wrong: I’m not being delusional. I don’t actually believe that a person is going to appear who will solve all of my personal problems like magic. That’s not the point. And I know that’s not the point because I’ve spent many many years writing fiction stories where that was the point, and no amount of mental manifestation has forced that reality into being. (Besides, people don’t like stories that end that way. If they did, the concept of deus ex machina would be expected and encouraged instead of hated and groaned at. And I imagine people would have enjoyed my stories a lot more, myself included.)

Instead, it’s about where I place my daily focus. If I’m not the hero of my own story, then maybe the best thing I can do is help other people become the heroes of their stories (or at least the stories that include me as a background character). If I can’t support myself trying to live for my passions, then maybe I need to make it my full-time job encouraging other people to live for their dreams and their passions.

I don’t know how I’m going to do this. And I feel foolish for thinking this is some grand epiphany: what do you mean living a “selfless life” isn’t a revolutionary idea? For me, though, it’s more than just an idea. It might be a method of survival.

I am not the hero of my own story. The more I have tried to make myself a hero in my own perception, the worse I have felt about myself. In fact, right now, I hate myself more than I have ever hated any other person in the world. When I look at pictures of myself (even ones I take right now, after all the weight loss), I feel nothing but complete revulsion for the “act” I know the person staring back at me is so plainly performing. And when I look at myself in the mirror, I can tolerate the person staring back at me only because I can see the spirit struggling underneath. That tiny spirit who is trying so hard to find something to continue living for. A tiny spirit that is hurting. Crying. So little of my personal perception is his fault, and I refuse to punish him for it. But he wants to go home so badly. He knows he can’t, though. Or he’ll end up punishing everyone he loves for things that aren’t their fault, and there’s no justice or mercy in doing that.

What I’m saying might be more literal for me than for anyone else, but: if I don’t find someone outside of myself to root for, to encourage, to strengthen, to cheer for and support… then I will have nothing. And my end will not be a joyful one.

Truth be told, I haven’t been able to see for a very long time how I could ever leave this world with a smile. The only way I see myself departing this world with any joy at all… is if I manage to find someone I can smile for. Someone infinitely better than I am. Someone who doesn’t accept “tokens” as payment (or, at the very least, dislikes them as much as I do). Someone who can smile back at me, despite having a crystal-clear awareness of everything and everyone that I am not.

I don’t know if that’s a possible end for me. I don’t know what I could do to even deserve an ending like that.

But you know what kind of ending I would accept? An ending that ends up looking anything like Dr. Casper Darling’s music video. Dancing like a moron, wearing a lab coat and goofy glasses, jamming out on a keytar (key guitar?) safe in the knowledge that I gave the real heroes the tools and encouragement they needed to save themselves and the ones they love. Even if I have to do it from the deepest depths of an alternate reality from which I’ll never return, it’ll be worth it. I’ll make it the nerdiest, the weirdest, and (somehow) the most uplifting end that you’ll ever witness. Because, come on: if I could make my personal demons die of cringe, then I would happily jam out until both I and they fade into complete and utter oblivion.

Because some of the best heroes in fiction (and more than a few in real-life) are those that the protagonist never knew they needed, who cheer from the dark for a victory that they’ll never live to see themselves. They may not be the heroes of their own stories. But they don’t need to be, because there’s always more than one story worth belonging to.