I’ve been sitting at my desk for about an hour trying to find the words to describe what happened to me yesterday. It seems that any attempt to explain would just result in a rambling post about random events that I’m sure would have no meaning to anyone else. All I can say is that there was a moment in the mid-afternoon when I suddenly saw the truth of who I am and what I can expect from the rest of my life.
I’ve been so stupid. It’s time to give up and find a job.
This post has been sitting around as a draft for over almost a week. I had intended to talk about the photo above, which is the view from my balcony after a dusting of snow. I had intended to make some snarky observations about a few Facebook acquaintances who have done little else but talk about how much it’s snowing back in Virginia. Every day their status updates have been about whether it’s snowing, how much it’s snowed, whether the roads are clear, how much ice is on the tree branches. . . .it’s as if nothing else is going on in their lives.
The main reason why I haven’t been posting is that my sister talked me into watching the TV show Bones. I don’t typically watch police shows because I hate the ambiguity–good cops that go bad, letting some criminals go free in order to catch their bosses, and so on. I prefer the black and white morality of medical shows. No matter who shows up at the hospital, the goal of every character is to save lives. Rarely is there a TV doctor who isn’t devoted to his or her profession. I’m not sure what I find so compelling about Bones, whether it’s the handsome star, David Boreanaz, or the mix of comedy and science. Whatever it is, I have spent about $30 at $1.99 per episode to watch key episodes from the last 5 seasons on Amazon Video on Demand, referring to the Wikipedia entries on the characters to tell me which episodes highlight the sexual tension between the leads or mention crucial details about the characters’ backgrounds. I’ve watched these episodes, along with whatever reruns appear on TV, for the last 3 or 4 days.
The characters on the show are well educated and intelligent. They have multiple scientific degrees and numerous accomplishments. They are dedicated to their work, spending long hours at the lab not because it’s required but because their work fascinates and defines them. Rarely have I seen a character at home relaxing; more often they’re relaxing in a gathering place of some kind at the workplace or sitting in a nearby diner. They are all dedicated to solving crimes, seeing justice done for the victims, and keeping people safe. They are willing to risk their own lives for this cause and to keep their friends and colleagues safe.
Today about noon, I finished watching an episode and found myself in tears. I had just finished the episode in which Hodgins (a supporting character) talked about how the female lead, Brennan, had longed for a big life and had finally found it working with the FBI agent, Booth. It was at that moment that it became clear to me what’s wrong with my life. It’s small.
There may have been a time, when I was very young, when I could have chosen a big life. I was smart enough to have gone to college and earned a degree in any discipline I wanted, when I could have chosen lofty goals to pursue, when I could have worked hard and become the best at something, when I could have done something significant, something that made a difference in the world.
I didn’t do it, and I’m not sure why. Did I make the conscious choice not to take the more difficult path, to live a small life because it was easier, to accept less rather than work for more? Or had I just not been aware of what my choices were? Sometimes I think that it was someone’s job–my school counselors, my teachers, my parents–to let me know that I didn’t have to settle for a small life, but they failed me. Did they not feel I was worth the time and effort? Did they look at me and decide that I was destined to be insignificant?
How many of my current difficulties, how much of my despair can be traced to a childhood incident that still haunts me, the day when a neighbor called my family white trash? Sometimes it seems that those words struck a fatal blow to my self esteem, that I’ve spent my life trying to convince myself that they weren’t true. How many times did I have a chance to do something great, but didn’t do it because some part of me believes that I’m not worthy of it?
And so here I am, up late on a Sunday night, thinking about starting the week fresh, but knowing I can’t because I’ve spent the weekend sitting around, watching TV, wishing I had a different life, crying, wondering if it’s too late for me.
Is it too late for me to find that big life? Is 47 too late to start? If not, then what should I do? I haven’t the slightest idea. All I know is that I want it to be big, and I don’t know if I can bear it if it’s not.
I hate you, Joyce Smith.
It’s been seven days since the movers were here, and I’ve had my first really bad day. I had allowed myself to believe that I wouldn’t have any more days like this; now it seems that moving to Denver isn’t going to be a complete cure.
Yesterday I went to Super Target and filled a cart with things I needed for the apartment: a tension rod with selves for the bathtub; dishes for salads and pasta, which I have been needing for a while; a shredder; a doormat for my balcony; a beverage dispenser to replace a cracked pitcher. I looked at thermal curtain panels and area rugs, tried to find some big latte cups. I came home, made meatloaf for dinner, and watched My Life in Ruins.
The movie was my mistake. Richard Dreyfuss played “Irv,” a tourist taking his first vacation since his wife’s death three years before. In a scene at the beach, Irv is sitting by himself thinking about his wife when she appears. He tells her that she’s made him wait too long to join her. Moments later (in the movie) he’s discovered unconscious in the sand.
Today I went out again to try to find the things I hadn’t found at Super Target. I should have known better than to attempt a second all-day shopping trip. As I felt myself getting tired, and with nothing in my cart, finally gave up and came home. I collapsed into my chair and sobbed for a while, thinking about how hard it is to get through every day without Hal, wondering if a day will come when he’ll suddenly appear at my side, and I will know that I don’t have to suffer any more.
I slept for 3 hours, ate leftover meatloaf, watched the movie again and wept during the beach scene. In the movie, Irv doesn’t die, but I suspect that in the original script, he did. I think that the director thought Irv’s death would be too sad for what was supposed to be a light-hearted comedy. But the way I see it, Irv was cheated out of the chance to join his wife.
I’ll never watch that movie again.
