A Drop Short of an Ocean
When I am suicidal — which is regularly — I am drawn to the blazing question: what’s wrong with me? What am I missing? There are obvious answers. I’ve never made a ton of money, and I’ve not held a super long traditional romance. I’ve hopped from career to career, often overeducated and overqualified. I’ve never been one of any particular crowd or scence, choosing instead of occupy the periphery.
But also, I like to hope that I’m a creative person.
And secretly (or not if you’re looking), I’m an optimist.
I’ve never been truly want for money. I’ve negotiated with myself and “missed” some opportunities, but I genuinely struggle to think of a time where I felt genuinely without for financial reasons. It’s been effort for sure. I feel lucky to not be an overly impulsive or indulgent creature, but I’ve definitely budgeted to include those luxuries I know and trust for my life.
You know, sushi budgets.
I dreamed a lot as a child. My future splayed out wildly like a field of feral flowers blooming in a hot and humid summer. With age came focus, and I bought into the idea that I’d be one thing. If we’re counting paychecks, despite having never been a “professional” I have been paid for at least four different careers in the last ten years. I live in a system that doesn’t value that particular type of progression, but I can’t find it in me to regret my wandering path. Every hat I’ve worn has been willing, and hung up when it felt right. I didn’t grow up wanting to be one thing.
I am barely ever only one thing.
In school, I flit from clique to clique even though I walked, talked, and definitively looked the part of a nerd. Even though that behavior felt a bit heartbreaking at the time, I didn’t stop. There’s room to unpack there, but honestly over a decade beyond those frustrations I don’t actually bemoan my habits. What I found in groups was an amplified sense indecision and exclusion, even though the individuals could be quite certain of themselves. That dissonance finally made sense a few years back and I’m more at peace now. The acute pain of isolation and being an outsider still hurts; but as I am, I would rather suffer the pangs of oddity than find solace in “normal.”
I’m a strong presence in no need of dilution.
I’ve dated a fair lot and even had a few “I love you’s” thrown my way. Certainly, I’m not entangled in a star-crossed love that’s lasted and rings like a Disney scene. Frankly, the love I’ve gotten — the love I get — from the intimate friendships I have has been bounteous. I feel no dearth of love in its many forms. Of course I was raised on “happily ever after” and so I know the jealous twinge of wanting a traditional coupling. All the same, I know my love and can name it easily.
And hey — I love you, too.
With all of these tools in my arsenal, you might think I’m doing great. When I can catch a glimpse of myself unattached, I’m exactly that.
If we’ve talked in the last few years, we know that’s only partially true.
I am great.
Something is still killing me. Rather, I am still the blade above my own head.
Humans aren’t formulae, not rigidly as we know them at least. I’m not missing some specific piece that I can find or buy. I can say this for the holes in my life: they are.
For now I can see two pretty easily.
I can look back on myself and survey my success in my own terms, but I’m pretty genuinely bad at soothing myself and celebrating my presence. For years I’ve scoffed at birthdays, graduations, and any other name of milestone I’ve met. It’s not to say I have deprived myself of all reward, but I have certainly minimized it.
I can also look outward onto the increasing ruin around me. I noticed this first maybe five or six years ago — a tectonic shift in my depression. It feels hollow, or like a platitude, but flatly the world sucks. It’s demonstrably hard to watch, and it has been additionally upsetting that we have found need to demonstrate that fact explicitly. Some people hope against the roil; I think that’s all we can do at some point. I struggle with hope.
Of those two things, I have action in both but one is certainly well beyond my locus of control. Even if I take to arms and do the most to fight the fight, I am still one person and can make the impact of roughly one person. We talk about the length of the arc of history, but rarely the overall size. Our most consequential humans will still be forgotten; their presence will be reclaimed and their memory forgotten or (at best) warped by the narrative.
I’m want for things.
But not much these days.
I’ve felt “better” every year, at least about myself.
And also, more certain that I’m not going to be “happy” here.
