“I don’t know. I guess… I guess I just feel like my default state now is… I don’t know. Complete misery.”
“And yet–and this is meant more as an observation than a compliment–you always look fantastic.”
I laughed. So he laughed.
“And that, too!” He pointed at me. “That laugh. That’s genuine. People can tell that’s real.”
“Right. Man, I don’t know. I mean, logically I know that those two parts of myself can exist together. But, I don’t know. It feels like one has to be real and the other a cover.”
I don’t know where this idea came from. That I am all either one thing or the other. Either depressed and using happiness as a cover or happy and never feeling the real crippling emptiness of depression. Surely you are not all one thing or another. Maybe there are no covers.
I’m terrified and miserable. I’m confident and exuberant. Not because I’m bipolar, but because people are fluid. Not everything is a symptom, kid. Sometimes it’s just how you’re feeling. Maybe your default state isn’t anything. Maybe life is neutral.
It was my mom who told me I’d been sober for twenty-one months this Tuesday. Because I don’t celebrate small victories. Anything less than a year doesn’t mean anything. They tell us “one day at a time”, but I have trouble giving praise between the markers. Only get credit for the grand achievements, for the fireworks, for the things that take breath away.
Exhausted. The lack of worthy accomplishment leaves me feeling like a constant disappointment. And failing every day just makes you want to quit. That’s why people like me relapse. That’s why we don’t reach our goals. That’s why we stop trying.
In therapy I told Leif, “I come up to the edge of my natural abilities and I just… I quit. I get terrified of failure and I just walk away. I don’t know how to push.”
He looked at me like he didn’t believe an ounce of it. An explanation drenched in feelings of inadequacy. My words refusing to give me any credit. He said, “You know how. You’ve never had to push this hard before, but you know how to.”
I just shook my head.
In the morning I went running. I left my GPS watch. I left my heart rate monitor. I brought my headphones. Bright red shoes pounded pavement in the dark. Bob Dylan wailed in my ears, “It’s-a hard, it’s-a hard, it’s-a hard rain’s a-gonna fall…”
I ran and I tried to forget that I should be running faster. That I should be able to run further. That this hill shouldn’t be so challenging. And at some point in the second mile I did.
For just a few moments toward the end of my run my brain got quiet. The only time during the day when I didn’t think about how disappointed I am in myself. Didn’t think that I’m completely incapable of any of this.
I’m not even sure how I think I can do this wrong. All this. I just get the idea in my head that there is a way I am supposed to be living. Because I think I’m broken. Because I think I am somehow uniquely fucked up.
Or maybe I want to be. Maybe I need to be because I recognize that person. I know the version of myself that needs fixing. And that’s what this is all about really, isn’t it? The great realization that if I do the things I say I want to do I will become a person I don’t recognize. That if I get healthy and safe I will have no idea who I am.
Not knowing who you are is way more terrifying than being a junkie, a drunk, a basket case, a slut. Not knowing what labels to put on yourself feels aimless, like floating, a sheet blowing in the wind. You start to wonder if maybe you don’t mean anything at all.
Mason whispers into the nape of my neck, “Yes. You can. I believe in you.”
I inhale sharp and nod my head. Hemingway running through my mind, “Isn’t it pretty to think so?”
In therapy Leif won’t even let me entertain the idea. “You are not uniquely broken. It sounds like you want to create different habits and responses. There’s no reason you can’t do that.”
I stare at him and bite my lip and start to cry and nod again. “Okay,” I say. Though it feels like it’s more for his benefit than anything.
Strangers leave blog comments as votes of confidence. I get pumped up for a moment, but I inevitably remember that I don’t believe any of it. That I think it’s all bullshit. Like I know some great secret no one else does. Truth is, no matter how much everyone else believes I am capable of making it out of this, I’m not.
I’ve always asked if bridges were high enough when crossing them. Always known where the hotels with balconies are. Always been aware of how long it takes to get a gun in the city I’m living in. I’ve always had a running list of options. Always known I am just biding my time until I break down well enough to go.
I talked openly about how I wouldn’t make it to twenty-five. But rarely mention how I continue to assume I won’t make it another year. Every birthday comes as a complete shock to me. Every anniversary.
But they’ve been right all along. I’m the one who has been foolish.
Inhale sharp. Nod my head. Mean it. This year I’ll learn to believe it.
Ruby Pipes 