Through a Glass, Darkly
It’s annoying how the work week routine bleeds into the weekend. 0630 on a Saturday, wide awake. No alarm, no reason, just habit robbing me of a glorious lie-in.
The cat must have heard my breathing change or something because it wasn't long before I saw the black tail stalking the bedside, like a shark fin in freshly chummed water. She hopped on my chest and ugly meowed, demanding her morning meal. I was too slow and got a batch of kitty biscuits on my bare chest. I should really trim her nails.
A little while later, with black coffee warming my stomach, I stood in the backyard under a big straw cap and sunglasses, watching the sprinkler. Some guys care about their lawn, but I’m not one of them. It’s getting a little too crunchy though and the HOA is whining about weeds in the flower bed, so I’m making an effort.
It was there in the relative silence, before the neighborhood goblins and lawn crews ruined it, that I realized how thoroughly domesticated I am. In all my years, I never thought I’d be the stereotypical suburban dad.
It’s strange how quickly it happens. I swear my 20s were just the other day.
I recently had an appointment with the VA psych and checked the after-visit notes today in the app. I never get used to seeing all the diagnoses. It got me thinking: it’s easy to get bogged down by those labels. Major Depressive Disorder, PTSD, etc. I look at it and feel deflated like, “Shit, I’m a mess.”
Then I thought about how it’s no surprise that so many of my posts are negative. They don’t have to be though. When writing, it’s sometimes too easy to indulge in those darker aspects at the expense of the full picture.
It’s a universal truth that our perception of the world is colored by our own particular combination of neurotransmitters and exogenous chemicals. Just because my view is a shade or three darker than the average person doesn’t mean that I don’t find profound beauty in a sunrise or that I’m incapable of deeply loving another person. It doesn’t mean that I’m not happy in my own weird way.
And that’s the same for any of you reading this. The stigma attached to mental health, the medical labels meant to define our daily lives, none of it really matters. Your experience of this life is yours alone, purely subjective and ultimately ineffable.
One can be happy and sad at the same time and never really know why. We just take the next breath because the alternative is untenable. We take comfort in the knowledge that nothing stays the same. We ride the peaks, endure the valleys.
I think I actually like me this way.