Work Text:
The tumult in the heart
keeps asking questions.
And then it stops
and undertakes to answer
in the same tone of voice.
No one could tell the difference.
Uninnocent,
these conversations start,
and then engage the senses,
only half-meaning to.
And then there is no choice,
and then there is no sense;
until a name and all its connotation
are the same.
"Conversation" - Elizabeth Bishop
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I have a problem.
It is a peculiar uneasiness which has no source I can determine. I have run every diagnostic on the circuits I have suspected might be at fault. There is no answer for this sensation.
I am sitting in the counselor's office. I am also calculating probabilities this will resolve the issue, pondering something the captain said this morning that puzzled me, and reformulating food for Spot.
There is the likelihood that the counselor will not understand. I have learned that psychotherapy is the solution of choice for people who cannot resolve inner turmoil. I cannot qualify what I am experiencing as emotional; however, she seems more willing to listen where others walk away. I am aware that a great deal of the crew find the counselor attractive.
While she talks I analyze the proportions of her face for comparison, the various tints in her hair most describe as 'black' -- this is one of the peculiarities about people, I have found. Clearly her hair is not merely black. There are subtle shades of dark brown in it as well. Her eyes are also two shades of black. People find uniformity where I see variety.
Preoccupation is a word I struggled to understand. It does not describe anything I do. As I begin to explain to Deanna that I am feeling uneasy, and further to explain that 'feeling' and 'uneasy' are approximations as I do not truly understand the nature of the problem, the previous thought processes continue - I decide that Spot requires more taurine in her diet, and calculate percentage based on recorded necessary dietary ingredients most often agreed upon by veterinarians; I decide that the captain must have been alluding to some previous experience I do not yet know about with as-yet unknown people. This is not the definition of preoccupation, which implies that I would be focused on one subject to the exclusion of others. Yet it is a preoccupation just the same.
I have been considering the nature of the problem for 384.574 hours to date. I have attempted six discussions regarding the matter. The people I chose by degree of closeness, with an equation I developed early in my post-activation days, out of necessity. I struggled so long with how to quantify relationships. Am I close? An intimate friend? A mere acquaintance? It would seem to be part of human genetics, the specifics elude me so. This would seem to be the sort of issue one would take to a close friend. Yet what I consider close still varies from others' perceptions, or so it would seem.
I terminate the process and store the recipe for Spot's next food recipe. I close the file on the captain's comparison of the current mission to a story about Sisyphus, who has not been listed as an officer in any Starfleet records I can access. I focus all my attention on this conversation in hopes that I will be able to terminate the preoccupation, freeing up resources for other issues.
"When did this begin to be a problem for you?" Deanna's question sets into motion the subroutine I specifically designed to translate chronological data into the language that passes as accurate and expected among people of all species. It still needs refinement, but I receive fewer odd looks and confused questions when I use it. She is requesting information that may pinpoint the cause. She wonders if some incident triggered the difficulty. I have already pondered this, but I also know that she is able to do what I cannot - leap to conclusions, organize data in intuitive ways. 'Brainstorm,' they call it.
I describe my activities for the duration of time I have isolated as being within an hour of the initiation of the uneasiness. This is not the right answer. Her expression conforms roughly to a pattern of facial movements I identify as 'concerned' as well as 'perplexed.'
"I have attempted to pinpoint the source by reviewing what I was thinking about at the time, but I do not believe assisting Geordi in routine engine maintenance, nor the consideration of the play Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, nor the act of feeding my cat, could have caused this."
"I would agree that what you describe seems disconnected from what's been happening," Deanna replies. "Have you been trying to dream again?"
The conversation continues along the expected lines as she attempts to identify the source. Then she abruptly begins to question what I have done so far; she would not want to suggest things I have already attempted. This makes sense. Then she surprises me. "I'm curious - how is this going for you so far?"
"Counselor?"
"In the past, I've heard you dismiss events that would have devastated most people for weeks. When Tasha died you didn't even take time off. I assume you're doing this to experiment with the process of working through an issue?"
For a moment, I consider choice of response - I could mimic hurt, because I truly did not come to her with that intent. I could respond as I usually did, as a machine without emotion. I have denied emotion as she observes now; I do not have emotions in the way people understand them. I have come to realize that there must be something in me that resembles emotion, if only because others observe something in me that they recognize as such.
"As I said, this is not a problem into which I have insight. I have not simply terminated the process because I do not know what process it is. I wish to understand it prior to extinguishing it." I do not add that I do not wish to repeat this process, either. This also confuses me. A process is merely that, a stream of thought through my conscious mind, and I do not usually find myself assigning preferences. I merely think until there is conclusion and termination.
"What is it, Data? You look concerned."
"It puzzles me that I cannot quantify it, nor do I wish to repeat it. Yet this seems to be something I would expect of a human, having recurring thoughts that elude explanation."
"Ah. This is an analogue of the human unconscious, do you think?"
"I do not know, Counselor." She describes the unconscious, summarizing information I have already accessed but does not help me understand. I consider reminding her that I am not human but a creation of one, but I have found that this does not help. It creates a distance between myself and my friends. I am continually aware of the differences between individuals. I can identify cultural, physiological, chemical, or any of a dozen general categories of difference between the officers of this vessel; I am building a list with each observed encounter between people that will help me create an equation to generate a subroutine to handle interactions with nuances of sameness and difference.
But not saying anything about this is part of the problem, I realize. The counselor needs more data. I have data I am not providing. So I wait for her to pause, part of the subroutine to handle conversations identifies the point at which it becomes polite to begin speaking, and I am listing all the differences I have identified in myself that set me apart from humanity. I list the unconscious, the subconscious, the conscious, the id, the super ego, all the defense mechanisms of the human psyche, none of which I utilize. I explain that I am not culturally bound nor are my mood states chemically altered. I explain that my moods correspond closely with situational input. I am not charged by adrenalin; rather, subroutines coded into my neural net and honed by experience will accurately assess danger and tick through lists of responses to find the one that best matches severity and efficiency required. I am not, I conclude aloud, completely convinced that I can find any help at all from anyone for the many small confusions and difficulties I experience.
And that is the process. That is the heart of the process. I have found my help after all.
"I believe I understand what is happening." I wait for her to react; she leans forward, folding her hands on her desk. "I believe I am experiencing. . . worry. As close to it as is possible, considering that I do not experience emotion. I believe the process is related to the ongoing misunderstandings I experience in relation to the behavior of those around me. As I continue to analyze and attempt to create subroutines that will handle interactions, I begin to wonder if I will ever be able to master human behavior."
"I would call it anxiety," she replies. "You're anxious about the imagined future of never understanding humanity."
"Imagined?"
"Data, that's all humanity is about. The struggle to understand. Just when humanity believes it has an understanding about the nature of reality, of itself, along comes another paradigm. And all human paradigms have flaws. In essence, you've managed to become more human by admitting that you don't understand being human."
"That. . . approaches paradox."
Deanna's frown tells me this is another instance of dischord, difference, and perhaps misunderstanding. "But we've talked about all of this before. I know you've discussed this concept with the captain as well, that humans have always quested for answers that elude them."
"You are telling me that I should not be anxious that I do not have answers."
"No, Data, I'm saying the anxiety is part of humanity. It's surprising to me that you're only now recognizing the anxiety."
"Only now?"
She smiles, this time the variation most closely corresponding to 'fond.' "You have always shown this anxiety. You have always wanted to understand, to be human. If you're only now becoming aware of this internal process, I'd guess you're getting closer to your goal. Whether what you feel is exactly what other people feel is immaterial. Each of us only truly knows the feelings we experience."
"You are an empath. I understood that meant you knew how others felt."
"Data, that's not a human trait, that's Betazoid. How do you feel now?"
I assess, and note that the process has now concluded. I close the file. "Better. Thank you, Counselor."
"There's another part of you that's human, too," she says as I stand up. "That part that kept you from understanding the nature of the anxiety. You said you didn't repress emotion. That sounds like repression to me."
I cannot explain how 'repress' is not the correct word for why the uneasiness was troubling me. I must be on the bridge in four point three minutes. "I was merely being human, then," I say, aware that this may be construed as humorous. She smiles again, nods, and I am able to recognize termination of the conversation.
I leave the counselor's office. On the way to the bridge I engage friendly greeting subroutines that call on level of friendship subroutines to determine appropriate responses to the many crew members transitioning between shifts. In the turbolift, I store the entire conversation and begin new subroutines to handle anxiety and uncertainty, now that I have identified them as personal issues.
Worf, who was already riding the turbolift, is here with me. He looks at me in a way I would describe as a glare, were he human. "Good evening," he grumbles.
"I believe that it will be," I reply. "It should be uneventful."
He is silent. He does not chat the way humans do. I know that he will not respond to attempts at idle conversation. I respect the difference; I decide that this experience is best described as reassuring. I know what will happen even though organisms are often unpredictable.
"Is something wrong, Commander?" Worf blurts. Now he seems agitated.
"I do not understand the question. What would lead you to believe something is wrong?"
"You are too quiet! Normally you try to tell me things I do not wish to know about your cat!"
The process I have now labeled 'anxiety' begins again.