There are few things I hate more than the feeling I get when someone says, “It’s gonna be great.” The feeling is outright, visceral, unreasonable anger. The kind that makes me start pacing like a caged animal so I won’t scream at them, their brows slightly furrowed in adoring concern, their smile modestly small and close-lipped, their breath exhaling hard like they’ve just lifted a heavy weight from me. I don’t like the person I become when I get this angry. But here we are.
Fuck you.
How in the entire fuck of the fucking expansive fuckmos do you have ANY idea what the future holds? I’m not talking about a show you’ve worked on or a book you’re writing or a bathroom you’re remodeling where empirical evidence shows you how a thing is gonna turn out. I mean our life shit. I mean picking your entire family up and moving across the country for the greater good. I mean deciding to bring a baby into your family. I mean quitting a toxic workplace to figure out what will make you happy and keep a roof over your head. Those are leaps. Those moves are changing your life in a monumental way, and motherfuckers have the gall…the unmitigated gall (thank you, Mom)…to pretend to know the future and your feelings and tell you it’s gonna be amaaaaaaazinnnng.
Honestly, though. Fuck you.
Because it really may not be amazing. Chances are pretty good it won’t be, just based on statistics and being alive. And that? THAT IS OK TOO. It might be the biggest mistake you’ve ever made. It might be so bad, you reevaluate all of your life choices. It might make you confront your inner demons in a way that makes you want to leap out of your skin, up your meds, and go to sleep for a week. It might be so egregiously horrific, you call your parents and apologize. Or, if they’re dead, think long and hard about the kind of people they were and change the stories you tell so they aren’t villains anymore. It might make you get a divorce, renew your vows, go off your toxic diet, eat vegetables, eat nothing but muffins, drink more, drink less, hold your loved ones close, burn all your belongings, get in your car and never look back, cry in the shower, make new friends, vow to never make new friends, get a skincare routine, or just stare at the fucking wall.
Good.
Because that shit needs to happen, too. And EVEN THEN…even then, Little Hooray You Can Do The Thing, it might STILL not be amazing. Have you BEEN OUTSIDE? It’s fucking terrible out there. We are living in the dumbest timeline in centuries. Honestly, people are utter trash.
Does this mean chuck it all and walk into the sea? NO. Does this mean let go of the rope and free fall into depression until you give up? ABSOLUTELY NOT.
It means you have to see what’s in front of you. You can’t just pretend misery doesn’t exist. You need to know it does. You need to see injustice, pain, illness, anger…or you’ll never feel the relief of their absence. You will have nothing to work toward.
I am, without a doubt, fucking miserable. The amount of snippiness, tears, anger, and lethargy I am experiencing is off the charts. Unprecedented? No. Different? Yes. I have told everyone that this move is not for me, and I am continually met with, “ooohhh don’t say that,” and “of course it iiiiiissss.” NO. It isn’t. I need it to not be. I desperately need the North Star that is Doing Good Things for Other People in order to understand why I’m here. My house is not unpacked. I have no desire to do anygoddamnething else. I hate it, but I don’t want to fix it. I can’t drive yet, so I can’t leave. I don’t have friends here, and I sure as shit don’t want to make any. My kid is a screen zombie who is off school for 5 weeks and no one to talk to. No activities. No nothing. We work all day. My career is laughably stagnant. I can’t even book a cop that says, “We got shooters?” I got nothin. I don’t want to create, but I absolutely need to, and my self made career in creation is lagging due to my mood and lack of discipline. Workout routine? Trashed. It’s sporadic at best.
It’s not going to be amazing right now. It’s not going to be great. It’s currently tear-at-my-hair-take-deep-breaths-and-cry-all-the-time bad. Because that is all I can manage some days.
AND THAT IS OK. This is what it IS right now. It’s my job to make that better and I have a greater purpose for doing so. I have two people here who hold me and love me through all of this, doing their damndest to bring joy. Planting gardens, showing me mountains, hugging me hard. That deserves my effort. That deserves me pulling myself up and out. Not lighting myself on fire to keep them warm, but giving them the courtesy of showing up as they do for me. I will be better in that process. I will do the work of admitting my own unhappiness and getting to a better place. I have to.
It’s going to be whatever it will be, and part of living is experiencing that. I’m here for it. It’s not going to be amazing. Maybe some moments will be. Maybe the whole thing will be. But if you come at me with that kind of smug assurance about the future, you’re completely ignoring my present and disregarding the work. And, on top of that, you’re pretending to know the future and my own heart. And for that?
Fuck you.