… then the things you’re doing are not the things that make you happy.

This struck me out of the blue the other day. And it seems super obvious, right? How many times do we hear something like, “If you’re not happy you need to do something different.” Or, “If you want to feel something different, you need to do something different.” But for me that has always just created a giant question mark. Sure, I need to do something different, but what?

This time… and this specific way of looking at it… changed things for me. (This is like the phrase, “you want to have your cake and eat it, too.” OF COURSE I want to eat my cake. Then, in college, I came across a Spanish translation of a diary, and it was written differently. It said, “He wants to eat his cake and have it, too.” Same words on either side, same idea, but the order of it flipped it in my mind, too, and it made sense).

I was driving home, listening to Lost Connections by Johann Hari talk about how most depression is a reasonable response to difficult life experiences, and the thought came to me: “If I’m not happy, the things I’m doing are not the things that make me happy.”

This is a bit difficult to explain, but I think if I can take you back to when I was 19, you’ll see what I mean. In addition to going to school, I was also working at a law firm, taking courses and tests to get hired by the fire department, and training to get in shape for the fire department. My daily schedule looked generally like this:

• Wake up at 6:15am, catch the 7am bus to make class at 8am, either reading for class or sleeping on the bus. I used to recognize a couple people from high school and one cute basketball player I recognized from school that I had a crush on, but I was always by myself on the bus.
• Took classes from 8am – 12noon. I knew some people at school, would occasionally stop to talk to somebody, but I never had much time to dilly-dally either between classes or before I needed to get to work.
• After class at noon I would take the train to work, usually sleeping on the ride, never talking to anybody, then stop at a bench on the way to eat a lunch I either brought with me or bought along the way. I remember this is the first time a guy ever hit on me. He asked if he could sit next to me, asked what I was doing, told me I had beautiful eyes. I said thank you and walked on to work. That was the only time I wasn’t alone eating lunch.
• I would work at the law firm from 1pm to 5pm or so. Sometimes I would have to leave early in order to make the required classes and testing for the fire department hiring process. I had two casual acquaintances who were also testing, and I would sometimes sit with them, sometimes be alone.
• If I didn’t have fire department testing, I would take the bus home and be home around 6pm. I would go straight to the gym to lift weights from about 6:30pm to 7:30pm, getting home around 8pm to eat dinner.
• I would then study in my room until about 10pm.
• Around 10pm I would drive over to a stretch of road that had a softer surface and was well-lit enough to run at night (although I rolled my ankle a handful of times). I would usually run two to three miles then head back home.
• After showering I would finish whatever studying I had left. At some point either before or after my run, I would call my girlfriend who was at school an hour and a half away. She didn’t have a job, didn’t exercise, wasn’t working on anything but school, but she usually didn’t have much time to talk.
• I would repeat this schedule every single weekday, occasionally skipping the gym or the run, but most days this was my schedule.
• On weekends I would continue to study, lift weights, and go to the gym. Every third or fourth weekend I would go visit my girlfriend or she would come home to her family. She slept a lot. Studied a lot. And at one point, we went an entire year without having sex. In hindsight I realize she was probably cheating on me and didn’t want to “cheat” on her other boyfriend. But at the time it was just a source of frustration for a very horny, sexual teen-ager.

Now, I ask you, where in my daily life was I doing anything that would bring me happiness? There was some self-worth, there was a sense of purpose, everything I did set me up for the successful life I’ve lived since, but very little in there was going to make me happy on a moment-to-moment, day-to-day basis. I remember writing in my journal over and over and over how much I just wanted a good hug.

Johann Hari says he believes depression is generally a result of disconnection from these 9 key factors of human health:

1. Meaningful Work
2. Other People
3. Meaningful Values
4. Childhood Trauma
5. Status and Respect
6. Natural World
7. Hopeful and Secure Future
8. Genes/DNA (genetic predisposition)
9. Brain Changes (Neuroplasticity)

Looking at that list, I see how many of those things were missing from my 19 year-old life, most notably other people. I was alone. All. The. Time. And even when I was talking to my girlfriend or with her, I was made to feel alone. I did not have someone I could go to for acceptance and validation, and our relationship did not inspire me with hope for a secure or happy future.

Then there’s the word “depressed.” I know what it feels like to be depressed. And, do you know what it feels like? It feels exactly how it looks when the button of a keyboard has been “depressed.” Picture that button stuck in the down position, unable to bounce back up, surrounded by other buttons upright. So I started looking at which activities not only make me feel that way, but make me LOOK that way.

For example, picture somebody bent over their phone, scrolling through Instagram not because they’re looking for something specific but because they’re sucked down the rabbit hole. That activity doesn’t invigorate me. Doesn’t make me feel alive. Doesn’t create a spark in me, doesn’t bring out my vitality. When I watch too much TV I can slump down into that “depressed” position. Then think of the activities where it’s impossible to get stuck down. Exercise (Motion creates emotion). Dancing. Playing a game with a toddler. Hugging your friends. Laughing uncontrollably. Sex… although one might think of that image of the short, stuck down keyboard button and picture…

Even crying uncontrollably. That might not be fun, but it’s hard not to feel alive when you’re purging pent up emotions. Cause really, depression is just lack of emotion, lack of vitality. So even some of the negative emotions like fear may not be fun, but you won’t feel depressed when you’re quaking at the top of a steep cliff; you’ll most certainly feel alive.

So where does that leave me? It has me looking at what I do, and what I really want out of that activity, and whether I get it or not. Take porn. I watch porn because I’m sexual and I want an outlet. But what do I really want from sex? I want connection to someone. I want security. I want acceptance. I want validation. Porn gives me NONE of those things. This is not to say that porn is bad. Or even that I won’t ever watch porn again. But it means that if I look a little deeper and realize that what I want more than porn is to feel accepted by someone, then maybe I try to reach out to a friend and talk instead of getting sucked into a porn vortex. I can save masturbation for when I’m truly horny as opposed to it being a way to fill the void of one of my lost connections.

Lastly, I want to talk a little about other people. I’m an introvert. Other people wear me out. And, let’s be honest, most people fucking suck. But I’ve noticed that I react to people differently. There are some people who put me on edge, I’m wary, I feel myself instinctively leaning away from them, sitting back in my chair, angling away from them. On the flip side, some people make me want to lean in, have more of them in my life. This can be good. But it can also be bad – most of us have had someone in our lives whom we wanted more attention from than they seemed inclined to give. Someone who our connection to always feels a bit tenuous, like if we did or said the wrong thing they’d disappear from our life. Then there are those magical people who just make us feel safe. When you see each other you both light up naturally and want to embrace. The person you never worry about pestering too much, and the person you never wish wouldn’t ask you to hang out.

How do you spend your time? Are those activities making you happy? SHOULD those activities be making you happy? And if something isn’t making you happy, what could you replace it with to get something positive out of it instead?

I recently began re-listening to Lost Connections by Johann Hari, and, among other things, it has reminded me that depression is a group of symptoms more than it is a disease. Depression is a warning system alerting you to the fact that something is seriously wrong.

There is so much good in this book, so much that I connect to so deeply. And since I haven’t finished listening to it for the second time I’m going to miss some things. But in addition to the emphasis on the fact that doctors just don’t really know why anti-depressants work for some people, there’s the main idea that your depression is telling you something is missing. You have lost one of your important connections.

Of course, during the Covid shutdown, most of us have lost some integral connections. Being social with friends has become difficult; physical contact with people has lessened, with fewer kisses, hugs, handshakes even; health and security have been taken away from a lot of people.

It got me wondering if my persistently recurring depression over the last 12 months could be traced to any lost connections, and I think I’ve decided… YES. Yes, yes, yes, a million times over, yes. Wow, I’ve lost a lot. Or, maybe lost isn’t the right word. I’m currently “missing” a lot of those key connections. Or maybe even better, I’m currently “deficient” in some key connections

Sex. Covid has killed my sex life. My wife and I are together… All. The. Damn. Time. And I think there’s something to be said about absence making the heart (and maybe loins) grow fonder. I’ve read that many marriages have suffered from a blow to their sex life since the pandemic. For me it’s especially hard because I am so reliant on sex and physical intimacy to feel wanted, to feel loved, to feel a sense of acceptance. I remember being on campus in college and an older gentleman sat next to me and began talking about some academic subject he was studying. Somehow he got around to asking me about my religious views, and when I told him I didn’t believe in God or an afterlife, he said, “sex must be very important in your life.” That just hit the nail square on the head in a way that made me very uncomfortable, and I declined to answer. But it stuck with me, and I know he was right.

I’m no longer getting that boost of security that comes from being wanted, from knowing someone wants to be physically connected to me as badly as I want to be physically connected to her. Things have grinded to a halt. In normal times I’ve been able to mitigate down periods in my sex life by having some alone time to watch porn and take care of myself, but with my wife working from home all the time, that’s another thing that has been taken away…

Connection to self. I am the type of person who needs a lot of alone time. Being around other people drains my energy, and I usually need to be alone to recharge. Now, being around my wife is not the same as being in a room full of strangers or even acquaintances, but it’s still not being fully alone. I think I have spent the past year almost consistently buzzing from always being at least a little “on” without any chance to fully shut down and recharge.

Purpose. My job gives me some purpose, some responsibility, makes me feel like I’m helping and serving the community around me. But I used to have a second job, and that job was more of a passion than it was a job. That passion project was mostly taken away from me by Covid, and I have spent the past twelve months without one of the main activities that would fulfill my need for meaning and purpose and self-fulfillment. I have searched around for something to feel good about. I’ve tried to work out more than usual. I’ve tried to learn a language. I’ve started two blogs. I’ve thought about researching a book. But nothing has replaced that passion project that comes so naturally to me.

Connection to others. That passion project was also a big part of my connection to others. I have three areas of connection to others, and two of them were taken away, probably most notably that passion project group. That group was large, ever shifting, and meaningful. My friends never really disappear. And luckily my work is a huge part of my social network. Still, though, my connection to others has been largely taken away.

Hope. I don’t think this is one of Hari’s connections, but for me this is huge. There has to be some hope, some optimism. Before Covid, my wife and I had a list of activities lined up since Christmas, about one a month. Plays, comedy shows, concerts. It gave us a night out to look forward to together. That has been taken away. Some of our annual trips have been taken away. And then take away the hope for some shared sexual exploration, and I’ve been left wanting (more on that word in a bit). I know change is coming, and I know there will be opportunities to resume our old life… eventually. But for much of the past year that hope and optimism have been taken away.

Another one Hari doesn’t count as its own connection: Play. This is an idea I got from Brene Brown’s book The Gifts of Imperfection. There was a quote in it, and I won’t get this exactly right, but it absolutely fucked my world up. She mentioned that the research of another doctor seemed to show the health effects of lack of play were similar to that of lack of sleep, which according to the wonderful book Why We Sleep by Matthew Walker are dire. According to Walker, deterioration of most aspects of health begin the second we wake from sleep, until if you’re awake long enough, you die. The question, he says, isn’t why we sleep, but why we ever wake. (And I think Hari would answer that we wake to achieve the key connections in life). So without play we suffer. And the doctor Brene Brown quotes says, “The opposite of play is not work. The opposite of play is depression.” And that’s me. That’s my life. If I have no play in my life, if I have no reward for the hard work I put in, then I have no vitality, I have no hope and optimism.

Wanting. This is an interesting word. Because I spend a lot of time thinking, “I want…” whatever it is. But want means to lack as much as it means a desire. So every time I think “I want,” what I’m also saying is, “I don’t have.” And how awful to be spending so much time talking and thinking about what I don’t have.

Okay, so what’s the answer, right? You’re tired of this depressive whine, aren’t you? I know I sure as fuck am. So where do we go? Well, the short answer is, “I don’t fucking know.” The longer answer is just a tad more nuanced. A few ideas.

1. If you want to feel something different, you have to do something different. Or as my friend has said, “motion creates emotion.” Depression sometimes feels like moving through life as if you’re under water. Everything is slow and sluggish. And you have to do something different to break that feeling. You have to move. You have to do a different activity than the ones you’ve been trying over and over and over to stop feeling the exact same way you’re still feeling. (But here is why the short answer is “I don’t fucking know.” Because I don’t know what different thing to try necessarily.)
2. Purposely attack some of those lost connections. I don’t know if it’s better to pick the big one and try to fill the missing connection, or to pick an easy one and try to create a small victory, a slump-buster if you will. But one way or another you have to fill your missing connections. (Me, I planned something for my wife and me, something for us to look forward to, and if all goes well, something to spark our intimacy as well. Being fully vaccinated, I also hope to begin meeting with some of my friends who are also vaccinated and sharing coffee, meals, hopefully a hug.)
3. Play. And I think for a lot of people this means allow yourself to play as much as actually doing it. For a lot of us we feel guilty for playing at the expense of doing something more “productive.” I have a friend who punishes herself for not doing more in her life despite advocating for others to be more lenient with themselves. I hope she allows herself more play time. Now that I know the importance of play I hope I can prioritize it more and feel less guilty for enjoying it.

This has been a hard, shitty fucking year for so many people. I have a salary I can count on, and I’m fully vaccinated, so it would be insensitive of me to complain about the circumstances of my life. But those of us who know the struggle of depression know that generally good life circumstances are not enough to ward of depression. I just hope that re-listening to Hari’s book will help me recognize what is missing from my life and allow me to purposefully add it to my otherwise generally solid circumstances.

I hope anyone reading this can find some hope and optimism in their life. And some play, whatever form that may take.

There’s a lot of talk lately about either a new or an increasing “cancel culture.” There’s a lot of angst and fear from some circles.

Two things. 1) There is NOTHING new about cancel culture. And, 2) today’s cancel culture is eminently tame in comparison to the cancel culture of the past.

Cancel culture is nothing new. Even just in relatively recent times we’ve seen plenty of cancel culture. When Tiger Woods turned out not to be a teetotaling perfect husband, almost every brand refused to be associated with him and immediately dropped him. When Gary Hart was the frontrunner for the 1988 Democratic Presidential nomination and it was learned he was having some extramarital fun he was quickly canceled. When Bernie Madoff… oh whatever.

But, let’s be honest, that’s not the real cancel culture, the pure cancel culture. No, long before we started diving through old tweets, our cancel culture choices were much easier. Oh, you think you as a Black man should be treated equally to whites? We are going to cancel you. And by cancel we mean kill. Oh, you as a Black man believe the White man is the devil? Then we are going to cancel you. And by cancel we mean kill. Oh, you as a White man have the temerity to argue that Black men should be treated as well as White men? Then we are going to cancel you. And by cancel we mean kill.

Muhammad Ali refused to fight for a country that refused to treat him well in a war he objected to, and as a result he was cancelled, his livelihood taken away. When Tommie Smith and John Carlos raised their firsts from the Olympic medal platform in 1968, they were both threatened with suspensions and bans and routinely attacked in the media. And Peter Norman, the white Australian who supported their protest from their shared podium? Yeah, they cancelled him, too. Of course, that was 52 years ago, that would never happen today.

Colin Kaepernick knows otherwise.

So today’s cancel culture, when we just decide we’re not going to financially support you if you you’ve expressed some ignorant, racist bullshit is really nothing but child’s play. I don’t think it’s too extreme to decide I don’t want to buy your jersey if you don’t believe in equal rights. I don’t think it’s too extreme to decide I don’t want to buy your book if you don’t support the Trans community. I don’t think it’s too extreme to not donate to your organization if you don’t support LGBTQ rights.

It’s not like I’m killing you because you were a 14 year-old boy who was accused of flirting with a white woman and therefore you deserved to be not only killed but tortured then left out to be found as an example for other young Black kids. And I don’t mean cause you actually DID flirt with the white woman, only that she said you did. That’s enough, right?

But that was 66 years ago, that wouldn’t happen today. Or maybe there’s a direct line between Emmett Till and Trayvon Martin. And let’s not forget that there are likely thousands of young Black men incarcerated right now because of false testimony.

In reality all the focus on cancel culture today comes down to one thing: fear. There seems to be a lot of fear that if public opinion can turn on some of those who have been “cancelled” for what some deem innocent mistakes then that means anyone could be cancelled, anyone could have their livelihood taken away from them. That makes me think two things. First, what are you afraid of? I’m not afraid of getting in trouble, cause I don’t plan on saying any racist, ignorant shit. I believe in treating people well, fairly, kindly. I believe in trying to treat people like people. And if I DO make a mistake, I hope to learn from it. And, secondly, isn’t it lucky for those cancelled that it’s only their livelihood being taken away and not their lives?

Of course, maybe livelihoods aren’t even being taken away. Sometimes a timely N-word gets you cancelled on one side but sells albums for the other side.

I guess this world takes all kinds.

“I’m pretty sure I saw you in the park the other day,” I wrote after Chrissy and I matched on Tinder.

She responded with “ohhhh?” and a blushing emoji. “What did you see?”

And suddenly I was very, very curious. What HAD I seen? I had seen a red-headed beauty dressed in black pants, a dark blue sweater, a black jacket, with earphones in and her phone in her hand. Maybe she’d been swiping on Tinder at that very moment. From what I could tell it looked like she had some lovely curves beneath that gray sweater.

“What did I see?” I wrote. “I saw an incredibly gorgeous red-head looking at her phone and listening to music. I saw someone I wish I had sat next to and said hello to.”

“LOL soooo glad you didn’t sit down next to me,” she replied.

“Aw, what? Why?”

“Oh, not you hunny. You’re a handsome devil,” she wrote. “It’s just that I wasn’t listening to music. I wouldn’t have wanted you to hear what was in my ears. Or see what was on my screen!!!!”

“Now I NEED to know what you were looking at lol”

“I don’t want you to judge me,” she typed.

“No judgments here! I’m all sorts of open-minded :)”

“Promise?” with a winky face.

“Cross my heart and hope to die,” I wrote, with my heart beating hard.

“Okaaaaaaay. But you promised… I was watching porn.”

“Whoa, that’s hottttt. What made you watch porn on a park bench out in the open?”

“I dunno. Sometimes I just get horny and want to play. Can’t help myself.”

“Wait… did you… you know?”

“Maaaaaaybe 🙂 Is that bad? You’re judging me, aren’t you?”

“No way. I think that’s fucking hot. Are you serious? You’re just messing with me, right?”

“Haha I wish I was messing with you, I wouldn’t be so embarrassed right now.”

“Don’t be embarrassed. AT ALL. I just wish I had stuck around to watch. How in the world did you pull that off?”

The dots appeared. Then disappeared. Then appeared again. I held my breath.

“Why don’t you stop and watch next time and you’ll see how I pulled it off,” she wrote.

“I would LOVE to. When and where and I’ll be there.”

* * * * * * * *

At three o’clock the next afternoon I walked the same path I had walked a handful of days earlier. The bench was empty, and I was sure Chrissy had been toying with me the whole time. I kept walking to the end of the path where it hit the tennis courts, then turned back around for one more sweep. As I approached the opening where I could view the bench I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket.

“Where are you?”

I stopped behind a giant tree whose trunk had split leaving a gap just about eye level and saw Chrissy sitting in the middle of the green bench. She was wearing a black coat cinched at the waist, her red hair sat about her shoulders in layers, and she wore a gray mask covering her mouth and nose. I saw a hint of gray at her chest where the coat sat slightly open.

“I see you,” I wrote.

“Where are you I can’t see you” she wrote.

“Don’t want you to know where I am. Don’t want you playing to me. I want you to go as if I’m not here. Just know I’m watching.

“How do I know you’re really here tho? What if I’m out here by myself like an idiot?”

“I want to know what’s under that coat.” I answered as proof. “I think I see a gray top. And your mask is probably a good idea in case anyone else sees :)”

Her phone was in her left hand, and as I saw her looking down at it, she took her right hand and pulled the lapel of her coat aside slightly, as if she was distracted and absent-mindedly moving her hand around. She was good. Underneath she wore a gray sweater, but beyond that I couldn’t tell any more.

“What do you see?” she asked.

“Ribbed gray sweater. It’s hot seeing you work, knowing I’m watching but also pretending to other people you don’t know what you’re doing.”

“Are there people watching me?”

“I hope so,” I wrote. “But I don’t see anybody. No more now. I want you to just go without me. Recreate the other day.”

“It won’t be exactly like the other day. I know you’re there watching. And that’s making me extremely wet. But ok.”

Her fingers moved across her phone, but no dots appeared on my screen, and I guessed that she was beginning to look for porn. My heart was beating hard against my chest, and I wondered about Chrissy’s ability to appear so calm and still. I imagined I would’ve been trembling from nerves had I been in her place.

Chrissy still held her phone in her left hand, and her right was still at the collar of her coat from when she had teased it open for me to see her gray sweater. Now she moved it so it was inside the coat and resting above her left breast. She seemed to be staring intently at her phone, never lifting her head to see if anybody was nearby. I watched her fingers spread, her pinky beginning to move circularly. I imagined her nipple stiffening against her finger.

She slid her hand between her breasts, then lowered it slowly, pushing down the belt of her coat and exposing more of the sweater. She then pulled the coat to the right so that both of her breasts were now framed by each lapel. Her hand slid across her stomach, then up between her breasts, then cupped her left breast. Chrissy squeezed, tightening the fabric across her tits, making it clear she wasn’t wearing anything underneath her sweater, her nipples pushing outward.

Just then I saw an elderly couple emerge on the path just behind Chrissy’s bench. I watched nervously as they walked around the left side of the bench then circle in front of Chrissy just as her middle finger was circling against her left nipple. Her eyes shot upward and widened in surprise, and I saw her scan the area for my watching eyes or that of anyone else who might be aware of her.

But the entire time her hand never dropped from her breast, and now her middle finger began again running circles around her nipple. Her commitment and daring were inspiring an involuntary response from my body.

Her eyes returned to her phone. Chrissy slid her right hand down from her breasts, over her stomach, before it then disappeared below her coat. I watched as her knees parted slightly. I was dying to know what she wore beneath.

If I had come across her not knowing what she was up to (as I had just the week before) I don’t think I would have had an inkling. She had angled her arm just so, her right elbow out so there was no knowing exactly how far middle her right hand had gone downward. But I knew. I knew not just from the anticipation but also from the flush of her face, the focus of her eyes on the phone, the slight, slight bounce of her elbow.

I wanted badly to text her; ask her what she was watching; what she was thinking; how she felt knowing I was watching; to let her know I was hard; ask if she wanted me to sit next to her; ask her if she wanted me to finger her. Instead I stayed immobile, rooted to the ground behind the giant tree.

Chrissy’s movement became more noticeable, her arm moving more up and down now. Her butt slid forward slightly, her body slouched a little lower. She lifted her head and scanned the pathway where I stood. She looked right, then left, then back at her phone as she brought her hand back to the surface and began undoing the belt of her coat. I watched in awe as the ends of her belt dropped to her side in front of the bench and her knees spread slightly. Her hand returned beneath her coat. Her hand resumed moving, in circles now, each movement disturbing her coat and separating the flaps.

I found myself nervous at her boldness but also desirous of more daring movement. And Chrissy obliged. She tilted her head back, letting her hand holding the phone to drop to her left thigh face down, her fingers pulling her coat aside exposing nothing underneath but the white flesh of her inner thigh all the way up to her pussy, where her hand was furiously moving in circles. She slid a bit lower in the seat and spread her legs fully, completely exposing her entire lower half, her gray sweater riding up above her belly button.

She was completely immersed in her rubbing now, her eyes closed, no concern whatsoever for her surroundings or any possible audience, including me. I watched as her hand moved steadily, quickly, her body beginning to tense. Her torso lengthened, her legs stretched out, bringing my eyes for the first time to her gray knee high boots that matched her sweater. The contrast of her boots, the coat, and her hips gave me an image I knew I would both remember forever and return to over and over in my sexual fantasies.

Her body was now a straight line from feet to head, her butt barely at the edge of the park bench as if she might slip off at any second. I watched her hand bounce up and down, two fingers doing all the work on her clit, her body shaking, shaking, shaking until there was a giant contraction, her chin slamming down tucked to her chest. Her shaking turned to quivering. Her knees pulling together, her torso coming forward covering her pussy from my view. Simultaneously I realized the tension in my own body and began relaxing my stiff posture if not my more focused stiffness.

I looked around both for her sake as well as my own, and then felt the vibration of my phone.

“OH MY GODDD!!!!”

“You are FUCKING incredible!” I wrote. “Did you feel good?”

“Amaaaaaaazing” she replied. “And you? Did YOU feel good?”

“I was incredibly turned on,” I wrote. “But I didn’t play if that’s what you meant.”

“Aw why not?”

“Just wanted to watch I guess.”

“Did you film me or take any pictures?” she asked.

“No. Didn’t know if that was allowed.”

The dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.

“Next Time,” she wrote, adding a winky face.

I have a folder in the Notes section on my phone entitled “Meaning of Life.” Every few weeks I seem to have a new focus, a new idea, a new outlook that’s meant to help me navigate this life better.

To be happy really. It all comes down to an endless attempt to be happy. Or, at the very least, to feel less pain.

But. But… that’s ridiculous. The idea of being happy or avoiding pain is ludicrous. As Friedrich Nietzsche said, “To live is to suffer. To survive is to find meaning in the suffering.” Or, as The Dread Pirate Roberts said, “Life is pain, highness. Anyone who says differently is selling something.” So who the fuck am I to believe that I’m going to avoid suffering? Who do I think I am to believe I can avoid the plight of all humanity?

So I thought this: what if someone came up to me and said, “I’m going to give you a choice. I am going to guarantee that you will get sick; you will become frail; you will suffer sadness, depression, anxiety, fear; you will lose loved ones; you will be bored; you will have road rage; you will suffer existential angst; you will question your place in the world; you will face hate and discrimination; and ignorance. But, as the price for all this negativity, I will offer you a chance to be alive.

“Your choices are, experience life along with ultimate suffering. Or be dead. Tell me your choice.”

I would choose life. Every. Single. Time.

So. Suffering is the price I pay for being alive.

I don’t want to try to avoid pain anymore. I don’t want to beat myself up for being depressed. I don’t want to suffer twice, once over the suffering, and again for feeling guilty about the suffering. How fucking stupid is that? I’m going to pay attention to the suffering, notice it, acknowledge it, and recognize that all that pain is the price I pay for being alive. All that hardness is the price I pay for any and all joy I get to experience.

My biggest New Years Eve memory isn’t even from New Years Eve; it’s from the night before. I had just turned 22, had started in the fire department, had just bought a house that I’d move into three months later, and for the first time in my life was feeling pretty damn good about myself.

Early in the day a few of us got together to go bowling, and I met my friend W’s friend L for the first time. I can’t remember exactly how I bowled, but I rolled well enough not to embarrass myself, and later that night when everyone convened at my house, W told me that L was interested in me.

And I was definitely interested in her.

We all went to a club, and while W’s English boyfriend when shot for shot with my buddy J and talked about how he would be Prime Minister and J would be President, I danced with L. She was wearing a glittery top that tied around the neck, again around the stomach above her belly button, and left her entire back exposed. She clearly wasn’t wearing a bra.

After everyone was good and drunk and danced out, we went back to my house… to drink some more. The future prime minister passed out, and J promptly went to work trying to sleep with his girlfriend.

L asked me for a tour of the house. Two minutes later we were on my bed making out. I untied the strap around her neck, exposing beautiful breasts which I went to work on, licking gently, nibbling, sucking, feeling.

I don’t remember much more about the night, but that’s about as far as it went. Later in life I’m sure we would’ve had sex, but at 22 sex seemed more precious and sacred than it does now.

As for New Year’s Eve, J passed out in my house, missed out on our planned basketball game, and ended up staying in bed till 6pm, then going home and skipping out on New Year’s Eve altogether.

L and I never fucked, and I regret it. In fact, later, as we settled into a flirty friendship, I had fantasies of her fucking me with a strapon, something I think about regularly while touching myself in the shower.

Towards the end of 5th grade my class went to the auditorium for gym class. The way I remember it, there were a handful of stations, although what the first of those were I can’t remember at all. What I do remember is that I had gone through all of them except the last which was a dance station. The instructions were to dance, however you wanted, just dance.

My buddy P and I got after it, smiling, laughing, having a great time copying all the dances we could think of. Primarily we did every variation of the running man we could think of. We did our version of the Kid N Play.

The dance station was in the very back of the auditorium, and the teacher was up on a stage at the front of the auditorium. As P and I half jokingly, half seriously danced our asses off, I could see the teacher watching us, watching me it felt like. I can’t remember if I was self-conscious about it, but knowing me I must have been.

At the end of the last station, we waited for the teacher to tell us what we were doing next. Before she told us, however, she said she would be announcing the winner of the dance competition. I must have missed the part at the beginning where she explained she would be judging a competition.

She said, “and the winner is…” and then pointed to me and somehow explained that I was the winner (she was not our regular teacher, just a gym teacher for that day as best I can remember).

During the walk back to the classroom I was the focus of everybody’s attention, with the boys laughing and making fun of me and the girls asking me to show them what dances I did. And just like that, like a switch had been thrown, all the endorphins and feel-good that had been coursing through my body while dancing were gone, replaced with a deep, profound sadness.

It felt as though I shouldn’t be that happy, I shouldn’t be energetic and bubby. It felt like what I deserved was much more severe. A dark weight fell over me. I had been walking with two friends, N and N, and it was almost like they could sense it. But instead of giving me a hard time, they just stuck with me, deflected the attention from all the girls, told me stories, told me jokes, kept me company the rest of the school day (this really must have been towards the very end of elementary school, because I remember the rest of that day being a big party. Perhaps it was our last day before graduation.)

I can’t say for sure, but I think this was the very first time I felt a full-on crush of depression. It was definitely the first with such a sudden onset. Since then, I’ve experienced this plenty. I’ll be at the dinner table at work holding court, telling stories, making people laugh, all eyes on me, and I’ll be buzzing with adrenaline, feeding off the attention, off the laughs, when suddenly it’ll get quiet and I’ll just crash, absolutely crumble to the ground with a profound sadness.

Guilt even. Like I just don’t deserve to feel such giddiness.

I remember being beyond ready to get out of elementary school. But middle school, despite good friends, athletic success, good grades, was worse. It was the solidification of my isolated depression, my insecurity at the certainty that all the other cool kids I was friends with were in fact far more worthy of attention and were much more confident as well as competent.

My best guess is that it has to do with the struggle between both wanting attention and fearing exposure. This dilemma plays out in my introverted nature but my desire to be successful, skilled, and accomplished. It plays out in my desire to be alone and private, but my strong conflicting desire to be fully exposed sexually. And it plays out in this blog, where I lay myself out there, but have to hide my identity and identifying details.

My first memory might not even be a memory. See, there’s a picture of me being held by my uncle in our backyard, me pointing to the back corner of the yard, my uncle smiling and looking along with me. I’m probably three. And it’s because of the picture that I remember it.

And yet. I swear I remember it. I can picture the back corner of the yard, can remember pointing. So either I don’t remember it except for the picture, or I only remember it because the picture brought back the memory and solidified it.

Who knows?

My uncle is a kind, kind man. He went to Berkeley during the 60’s, participated in the protests, met his future wife, and developed the ideals that would lead to a thirty-plus year career with the EPA. He worked hard to clean up the smog in LA, traveling weekly from the Bay Area down to SoCal. He always took an interest in what I was doing, even when he clearly had no personal interest or investment. He raised a son who turned out equally as nice. The type of kid who would get a shitty birthday present and pretend it was exactly what he wanted and never once drop the charade. Now my cousin is raising his own beautiful son who I’m sure will turn out to be far kinder than I can ever hope to be.

I don’t know if writing my memories down will help. I have this vague notion that getting them down in one place will somehow help me organize my thoughts and recognize my patterns, help me figure out why I am who I am.

I also have this idea to take some of my memories and split them up between “The Truth” and “The Fantasy,” combining reality with what I wish would’ve happened at the time.

Eh. Who fucking knows?