As I’ve done so many times before; I come here -restless, confused, anxious and sad- looking for answers.
But this time feels rather different.
Before, I used to share these posts religiously on my social media, drawing in dozens and sometimes hundreds of views, which validated my existence and gave me a burgeoning sense of accomplishment. Perhaps I was more than a corporate shill, selling myself for some cash and what decades of hustle culture had convinced me was the whole point of my life: that evil, evil concept that humanity refers to as a “career”. Perhaps I could hold on to what little wisps of personality I had left that hadn’t yet been sandblasted off of me by decades of standardized education and half a decade of work experience. Perhaps I could maintain some semblance of who I was through my little acts of rebellion; a boyish haircut, an electric guitar, a BMW and complete denial as to who and what I was turning to. I battled hard to maintain my self-image of an aloof rockstar who was just playing the game but was ultimately above it. Sure, I worked a 9 to 5, but I’d never let that get to me. I’d always be me; an authentic person who saw himself as much more than a suit or a cog in a machine. I’d witness others slowly turn into down-trodden shells of who they’d been as they’d hustle to keep themselves and their young families financially afloat, and I’d smugly silently judge them. I was single, attractive, young and free. I was a reader, a writer, a musician, an athlete; a cook; a traveller, and above all a gamer- someone who played the game and was good at it, but didn’t need to or care enough to try any harder because he was so much more than a career man.
And yet, with every passing year, I lost more and more of myself. Toxic work environment gave way to toxic work environment. Unhealthy relationship gave way to outright toxic relationship. Hobby after hobby fell by the wayside as I struggled with low energy and a general lack of free time. The guitar was the first to go into storage as I decided to focus on my writing. Then went the reading and the cooking. The gym soon followed; and with it most of my self-esteem and critically low endorphin supply. I held on to the writer in me for the longest time; often just churning out recycled trash just to earn the right to keep referring to myself as one- but eventually, he was gone too. I retired my blog, and told myself it’s for the best- even as I instantly lost my only source of validation and spiraled down into the familiar depths of self-hate and depression. The final blow to what remained of my carefully cultivated self-image was the toxic relationship to end all toxic relationships, by the end of which I’d lost my hairline, any sense of self-worth and the BMW- which I sold to rid myself of any lingering memories of my most horrible mistake. At that point, I had no patience even for video games- and even sources of instant dopamine such as binge-watching TV shows and junk food stopped bringing me any joy.
Time had finally worn me down.
Before, I might have harbored some romanticized notions of me as a writer. Perhaps I thought someone reading this -and by “someone” I meant an attractive woman, naturally- would fall in love with this poor tortured soul and save him from himself. Perhaps she would see any value in him and make him feel like more than human trash for once.
But the reason this time feels different is that I know this won’t happen. For one thing, no one is likely to ever read this bar a few friends if I choose to share it with them… but mainly I can’t shake off the feeling that I’ve peaked. I’ve had my hour in the sun. Now the sad reality is that I am no longer who I was five years ago. Most of the things I thought made me interesting don’t apply anymore; I hardly ever write or play music; I’ve forgotten how to cook and almost can’t remember the last time I picked up a book (that rhymed. Hehehe). I don’t drive a hot car, and I’m certainly not “young” anymore, being 30 and having lost most of my hair and passion for life. I’ve lost even my aloofness, now that I feel forced to double down on my career choice and complete my master’s degree of accounting -after a full decade of rejecting and rebelling against my destiny- in order to have any real chance at finding a decent job now that I’m unemployed and in the middle of a global recession.
It just feels to me like the tortured soul shtick only works when you’re at a minimum level of physical attractiveness- one that I’m not at, anymore. Now, it just comes across as tired, pathetic and bitter.
And so, I choose to be someone else. This is where I make my final stand and roar my defiance against time itself. I refuse to feel like a has-been. I refuse to feel like the gum stuck to your shoe.
Perhaps I can choose to do most of these things again, like writing, reading, working out and cooking.
Perhaps focusing on earning my master’s degree to develop my career signals maturity rather than defeat.
Perhaps selling my hot car was a deliberate choice, because the type of woman it attracted is one that I never want to deal with again in my life.
Perhaps the type of immature woman who’d be attracted to my previously blond curls and blue eyes and turned off by my now nearly bald head and tired, baggy eyes- ignoring my other merits and actual substance- is one whose place should be firmly in my rearview mirror.
Perhaps real attractiveness is born out of confidence and real belief in oneself, rather than in one’s physical appearance.
And perhaps it’s time to accept that the only way you can win a battle against time itself is to admit defeat. I will never again be who I was five years ago… and that’s a good thing. Most of the things I’ve “lost”, I can still get back- and those I can’t have been replaced with real life experiences and actual growth.
I will never again be who I was five years ago, but I will also never be as young as I am right now.
The choice is whether to wallow or to live… and I’m sure it won’t always be easy or fun, but I choose life.
