I am mainly posting this because I wrote it and it was extremely cathartic and I am afraid of losing it on my computer somewhere. I was originally just venting about having undiagnosed ASD but it started making me feel better about other stuff as well.

A Hole a Mile Deep

Sometimes, you are told to dig a hole a mile deep with no tools. You don’t know why you’re digging this hole, but you know that if it is not a mile deep, you fail. The thing about digging a hole like that with your bare hands is that you don’t know when you’ve succeeded because no one knows what a hole a mile deep looks like. No one knows what a hole a mile deep feels like. You just know the exhaustion you get from digging it. And you know that exhaustion is never enough. You dig, and you get tired, and you dig some more because there’s never any telling how much is enough. So you continue digging, ad nauseam, because digging too much is still a success.

However, you lose either way. You dig too little, you fail, you dig too much, and you have succeeded in spending more time and energy doing this meaningless task than you needed to. The worst thing is that everyone else is also digging their own holes, just like you. No one really talks about it, but if you happen to bring it up to them, you’ll find out that they were given tools for this task. Shovels, jackhammers—some people even have cranes. They can measure and carry out this task with ease. Some don’t break a sweat at all. It makes sense now why they don’t talk about it. It’s as easy as breathing; what is there to talk about? They think you’re lying about having no tools. Surely, if you had no tools, you would just refuse the task. They know many people who refuse the task entirely, so why haven’t you? They fail to mention how abused these people are—the ones that don’t participate. They are only humans in name. To many, they are not even afforded that title. They have derogatory names that they call these people. All over a silly. Fucking. Hole. Of which they themselves have never questioned the importance.

So, you continue digging, tired as you may be. Stuck in purgatory. Unable to express fatigue. Digging this hole as you have, however, does give you some insight. You know how the ground feels. You see the bugs. You see the cracks. You know the intricate details of the earth that are overlooked by those who work too far from the dirt. They are masters of their machinery, but you are a scholar of all soils. Their devices are specific to them, but the soil is universal. They can mock you for how much effort it takes you to move the same amount of dirt as them, but they would be amazed if they saw what you accomplished with your hands alone. They feel superior when they should feel ashamed; you were given the same assignment with fewer means, but you’ve dug a mile deeper.