Bobby Kennedy for President Put Me Right Inside My Feelings
I am suddenly having a very familiar hard time.
I shouldn’t have kept watching Bobby Kennedy For President on Netflix. Okay so I learned some history, but also it’s an awful history. And now I’m sad and melancholy and haunted by the images of both him and his brother, and haunted by the reality that being fortunate and doing good in this world is a guaranteed recipe for suffering.
Maybe on one hand, if you want to look at it in a certain light, the angels always take the good people from this wretched world. But the other side of that is all the rest of us who put our faith in the ideals these people represent, and are left here broken and sad and worse off than we were before because our fear magnifies and perpetuates in reaction to the losses.
I want to do something good. I want to help people.
I keep saying this. I think I do, but also that could just be one or the other of my psychological elements feeding my need to be loved. I’m not above the need for validation, the need to prove my worth to myself through others. Do I actually want to help anyone? Am I taking the easiest way out? Am I just a foolish dreamer and idealist who actually loathes people and wholeheartedly refuse to act on anyone’s behalf? What is goodness? What do I know for certain better than anyone else?
Isn’t morality dead anyway?
I should write my scripts, I tell myself. I want to make a movie, and a few soap operas. I want to make lots of money and fall in love with someone intolerably handsome and have a cute little family of wackadoodles. But I preoccupy myself with some urgency that my personal desires be balanced out by my helping others in some way, that I must validate my desires and earn them through giving and empowering.
Is that true? Or is it just part of the things I feed myself? I don’t know anymore.
I should not have watched that episode. I should not have seen that beautiful man be killed.