Lost. Lost. Lost.
That’s how I’ve been feeling for a year now. I remember last July, a time of Spanish sunshine and complete confidence. I came home on vacation and OF ran into me somewhere and he said: you seem different. Settled somehow. I remember riding a bus from Madrid to Valladolid and watching the sunset blur through the dirty windows. And thinking to myself with a smile, that for the first time in my life I was so filled with contentment. My life was full and so it promised to continue.
And then reality (such an ugly word, but why? Because it’s always used as the pejorative form of life?) caught up with me. A year later, I’m fairly settled. I have a job, I have a flat, and I live with someone I love. I see my parents whenever I wish, something vital to me. I have found GOOD friends and happiness in companionship. But I’m lost again.
In some ways I’m happy like I never thought I could ever be, here in this place, giving up New York. I remember a friend talking sense to me: “No sé, es que cada vez que he tomado una decisión me ha jodido. Las cosas buenas me pasan sin tener que hacerlas.” I said to him. “Pues si no ves manera de quedarte, no estás tomando ninguna decisión” he replied. So I left New York, with a heavy heart, but not so heavy that it drowned me. And now, six months later, I’m sure that things have happened as they should have.
But, I find myself torn and weeping, again, yet again, in this place, surrounded by love, joyous in my homes – both of them, but stricken without. And I think, yes I DID take a decision, and look, I AM fucked.
But what to do? I don’t see a way out that’s not cowardly.
And yet, here I am because of fear. Fear that I wouldn’t succeed on the road not taken, fear that all that I have instinctively revolted against was merely the dregs of teenage rebellion. However, I find I cannot look myself in the face, because all those ideals, of fulfillment, of believing that what I do makes a difference, of taking control of the consequences of my actions, of not backing down, they have drowned in a cesspool of fear. It is easier to accept that I was wrong in my youthful whims than to accept that I might fail in my adult beliefs.
If this is what I fought against engineering and medicine and MBAs for, I might have been better off not fighting.
And that my friends is the unkindest cut of all.