All Faith in Disillusionment

I don’t like this. I don’t understand it, either. Every two years or so, I need a tune-up. A huge change to placate me, to make me happy. No matter where I am, there comes a time when very little will lift my spirits, because I feel like I don’t belong. No matter where I am, there comes a sudden displacement. Except for when I lived in Massachusetts, but perhaps that’s because I grew up there.

I’ve done alright managing my anxiety since I started the medication in September, but the depression is another story. It grips me with such a terrific force that I can’t help but succumb to it. It does not last as long as it used to—so long as I do something to keep my mind off of it—but it’s still there. So I try to divert my attention. I watch “Being John Malkovich” for the 36th time, or I cook a big meal, or I go shopping. Just to be around people. At the end of the night, perhaps I am a bit more tired, and perhaps I fall asleep a little more easily than the night before. And maybe my dreams are stranger, and maybe I don’t remember my dreams. And maybe I don’t dream at all. But I wake up the next morning, and it comes back not in small ripples, but in tidal waves. So obvious, so aggressive.

I wish I had friends that did not lie. And, not to be egotistic, but I wish everyone could be like me in some ways. Honest. Selfless. Compassionate. Loyal. Maybe not as deliberate as I—I can be OCD—and maybe not as easily prone to depression, but if someone could at least skim off the admirable qualities, siphon out the friendly ones, and evenly distribute them to all living beings, I’d have more faith. Faith in what? Humanity, my friends, politicians, whomever. I would be so happy if people would be truthful with me. Some of my closest friends have damaged me with their lies. I wake up the next morning with something missing inside, and I wonder if they’ve taken it. It’s ridiculous. Why can’t people just tell it like it is? I’m being vague and, worse, repetitive, but I have no one to apologize to.

To feel loved. I think that’s what most of us are looking for, if we haven’t already found it. Not to feel used, not to feel like a time-filler for boredom, or second best. To look at someone and not take them for granted, but know that they’ll always be there. A security blanket. To feel like the first thing on someone’s to-do list, their number one priority, that’s all I want. Maybe it’s too much. Don’t make someone a priority if they only make you an option. I heard that somewhere.

I wish I had a sense of purpose. I wish I loved my job as much as I used to. I wish that I knew where I was going, or at least knew the endpoint, but I don’t. And that’s sad. What’s sadder, though, is the pressure put on people to even have an endpoint. Not to be hippie or bohemian, but why is success so important at all? And why do I care so much about it? To be published, recognized, understood. Sometimes I wonder, if I ever were successful, would I know it? Would it fill a small part of that emptiness inside? Or would I be the same?