Leaving Isn't the Hardest Thing(77)
We weren’t competing. And I’m not just saying that because if we had been, I’d only have won the first round. But it wasn’t a competition. He was genuinely happy for me. I was thrilled for him. He gave me some tips on refinishing the floors. I gave him the names of some bands he’d like. Then he admitted he’d only worn a Black Keys T-shirt because he thought I’d think it was cool. I assured him it was very cool. I didn’t need to impress him. He’s a cult baby. It’s a little like knowing someone from AA or group therapy or basic training. You’ve seen each other cry.
That we’d seen each other break was why we were trying so earnestly to assure each other we were okay. They didn’t win. We’d done all right. We’d survived, thrived even. We’d made it. We were happy. They were wrong. We were okay. And happy.
I don’t know if he was happy, or if he is happy. We’re friends because we share a common past. The extent of our relationship is that we hit like on each other’s pictures. He was probably happy. I was fucking miserable.
I had done what I was supposed to do, most of it anyway. He may have been ahead, but he’s a straight white German male who lives in Canada. He got free university. I was still proud I hadn’t been to jail in a couple years. But like I said, we weren’t competing. And we grade each other on a curve. He was, however, extremely impressed with jail stories. Guys always love the D.C. lockup advice—“If you have to shit, take one leg out of your pants so you can still fight if you need to.” Still, I’d done it. Here’s my house, that’s my job, there are the people and animals who love me. I got my shit together. I’m someone people can love.
In the weeks after he left, I couldn’t sleep. I let things go long enough, haircuts and personal grooming and laundry, that friends started asking if I was depressed, and I probably was. But sometimes what looks like depression is your brain slowing down enough to think, like a freezing body draws oxygen away from your limbs. I wanted so bad for someone to just tell me what to do. But I was thirty-five. I was already quickly realizing that no one has the first fucking clue, that all those people you thought had their shit together were simply hoping they hadn’t just made that one choice that ruins everything. Fingers crossed.
When it comes down to it, everyone—your parents, your friends, that clickbait article, the self-help books, your therapist, Beverly Cleary, and Dan Savage—has the same advice anyway. Doesn’t matter the question, they tell you to listen to your inner voice, trust your instincts. Everyone likes to give advice, but no one wants to be responsible for the outcome. It’s an easy way to sound wise, and drop a chit for a future “told you so,” while keeping clear of blame when everything goes to shit. Truth is, no one fucking knows what else to say.
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Was it a midlife crisis I experienced that put me in that Winnebago, or is that what we call it when most of us hit the wall and realize we’ll never get ahead, even if we manage to catch up? Did I just see it a little early? Like everyone else, I’d been working forty to eighty hours a week most of my adult life. And not once was I more than one missed paycheck, one vet bill, one bad transmission, one natural disaster, one injury or illness away from losing it all.
Maybe “midlife crisis” is what we call it because that’s about the time we realize working hard and staying out of trouble doesn’t change the fact we’ll be working until we’re eighty—unless we get sick first, or shot. (You really do have to account for that possibility in this country.) And we’re already fucking exhausted.
We’re all so busy struggling to survive that we don’t have time to live. The only joy we experience is by purchasing objects meant to make our lives easier. Buy a house. Homeownership, that’s the ticket. Quit throwing your money away on rent. In reality, you might own one room after ten years of payments. Not the kitchen. Maybe the smaller bedroom. Make your payments on time for twenty years of a thirty-year mortgage, get laid off, miss a few payments, and you’ll find out exactly what you own.
But sure, let’s play along. Now you have a house. You’re almost there. But you have to fill the house. Only a psychopath leaves their walls unadorned. You need things to sit on and things to sleep on and things to put things in. You need things that’ll make your life easier. The robot vacuum that’ll do the work for you so you have time to pay your taxes. The tax product that’ll do your taxes for you so you have time to make dinner. The dinner ingredients shipped in a box and all you have to do is prepare them. The app that allows you to order dinner so you have time to relax. Never mind the commercials you can now skip with the premium cable package, the television show you’re watching on your sixty-inch LCD screen that was supposed to make you happy is just an ad for something else you need. Buy it. It will make you happy.
But only a for a moment. So you post a picture of it on Facebook. That little bell lights red and you got a notification. Someone liked your picture. A sweet, sweet hit of dopamine hits your brain because we’re all fucking lab rats. Another notification. Someone commented, “I’m so jel.” Because we no longer have time to write full words. Who cares. It’s another hit either way. You give back to the community. Scroll through and like someone’s vacation photos they’re posting every 2.3 hours because actual experiences are no match for the hit we fucking need and can only feel when someone likes the pictures of our experiences.