My anxiety and depression are the best of friends and it’s rare for one to show up without the other. This year in particular has been pretty rough on the mental health front. Given everything that’s been going on in my life, that shouldn’t come as much of a surprise. So long as I manage to get myself out of bed in the morning and not totally shirk my responsibilities, I like to say I’m winning the struggle, but that is just a convenient fiction to avoid the reality of the situation.
I’ve never taken great care of myself mentally or physically: I have a very poor diet, exercise quite rarely, and have only recently begun entertaining the notion of self-compassion. Often, a creeping nihilism worms its way though my decision-making processes leading me to err on the side of convenience far more than on what’s good for me. It’s so easy to tell myself that my life is already over, for all practical purposes, so why fucking bother? Eat fast food. Skip that walk. What’s the use?
I’d call this a mid-life crisis, but I’ve battled these feelings for as long as I can remember. There’s always been a fundamental lack of raison d’etre in my world view, but it’s become increasingly hard to find ad hoc reasons for doing something as opposed to nothing. I imagine that’s part of why I’ve started to write: creative outlets at least give me the semblance of participating in society. I’m also trying to convince Kara to start a podcast with me. Vanity projects as a potential substitute for a meaningful life?
I jest, but that’s only because laughter is preferable to tears or rage. I still haven’t quite come to terms with healthy displays of emotion. When I’m feeling particularly down I often prefer to stay in bed since even the pleasant distraction of a coffee shop feels hollow and empty. It’s been well established that women seem wicked when you’re unwanted and faces look ugly when you’re alone. Who am I to question such ancient wisdom?
I often ask people what they would do with themselves if they were to have their current expenses covered in exchange for immediately quitting their job. In my case, I assume it’s fairly obvious that I’d accept the offer, but then what? I’m honestly not sure what I’d do differently than during a normal summer break. I have great difficulty finding the motivation to go above and beyond my current level of effort because I often don’t see the point. Start a business? Make more money? For what? To buy more expensive coffee? To travel to exotic locations and be alone there? To write shitty essays and admire women in a foreign cafe? It all just seems like more of the same.
Make no mistake, I’m not at all eager to die. I view this life as an incredible opportunity! As Carl Sagan said, “We are a way for the cosmos to know itself.” There is an inherent wonder and beauty to the universe and this chance to experience it, but I feel like I’ve made an absolute clusterfuck of it. Unfortunately, there’s no “undo” button to fix the countless mistakes I’ve made along the way. That’s the real tragedy: I’ve already fucked up beyond redemption, but I still have to sit here and watch the pieces shatter as they hit the ground.
