February

Winter is lonely. Specifically, winter in Southern California. The weather is frightening. Any weather absolutely throws us off kilter. One storm and the barely worn rain boots are pulled from under the bed. People with janky umbrellas, not opened since last year, hustle from car to building. No time for smiling, no time to look up. Everyone is grumpier. This is my justification for going mad every February. Like clockwork, February sweeps in and my serotonin sweeps out. This year, though, I finally helped myself. I helped myself into some Prozac and therapy. And, still, I feel lonely. Like under my skin creeping, gaping loneliness. I am anxious and sad and lonely and gray. Like the foggy February mornings where even the fresh cut grass looks gray.

I’m beginning to think my life is cyclical. “In summers, I go swimming. In winter, I go mad.” Possibly affected by seasons, possibly just bone deep depression. It’s the restlessness, though, that I can’t escape. I want to change...something.

I want to travel, even if it’s to West Covina. I want to eat at all the fancy restaurants, dip my feet into every body of water. I need to move, to change something, maybe my hair. The impulsivity is so suffocating. I can’t ignore it.

Last week, I accidentally dyed my hair purple. I was forcing it blonder and I made it purple. Kind of a purple silver, but Mrs. Slocombe would be jealous, it was that purple. And then 2 days ago, in my Facebook memories, there I am 5 years ago, with over-toned purple hair.

A few weeks ago John told me that he was buying new tires for my car. I was backing out of the driveway when I noticed a weird sound. I hopped out to find a flat tire. A few minutes later, my facebook memory popped up from 6 years ago, “Got a flat tire on our way to buy new tires.”

Recently, I was looking for a tv show to watch, something distracting enough to allow me to ignore my life but not so engrossing I can’t play Words with Friends as I slowly get drunker. So I started watching Dollhouse again. It seemed like it had been long enough that I forgot most of the plot, but I remembered I liked it. And then, in my memories from 2012, “Just finished Dollhouse, what show should I binge next.”

It’s like I’m living in a circle. There is nothing new under the sun. I think I’m spontaneous. I think my decisions are made spontaneously. But,...the spontaneity is a cycle. I have a cycle of spontaneity. I’m in a matrix. A random life generator but it’s never really random. There are only so many choices out there for someone like me. More than others, sure, but less than some.

I feel restlessly helpless. And it’s not a feeling I know. I like to solve puzzles, fix problems. And this one seems...infinite when I like finite. The time is the thing, then. It’s like Groundhog Day, but on a broader scale. I haven’t yet repaired myself so it keeps spinning back with the same tv show, the same hair debacle, the same car problems...making a pattern that I will eventually see. Something unequivocal that I can’t deny. I’ll see the pattern and eventually I’ll know how to change it. Doing what I’ve always done hasn’t changed anything. My car still gets a flat. On the same day 5 years later.

If this world is just a virtual reality game designed for aliens, my player is not as creative as they think. Which I know because I am not as creative as I think. Wow. So consider your player for a moment. Mine is possibly less attractive than me. But they picked what was seemingly attractive to them only to find that in this world, it’s not as attractive as they thought. Or as smart. Nor as creative. We are never “the most” anyway. And those who are “most” or “best” must have more credits than us, right? It can’t just be that I’m unmotivated and possibly swimming in imposter's syndrome. It must be that my creator is more insecure than I am. That’s it. They want to be so much more than their credits will allow them to become. Meanwhile, terrible people who know how to manipulate the system for more credits get everything. So maudlin, this theory; I never had a chance. I have a bored imaginer who has a too busy life or a life more exciting than the one they designed. Generally not the case. It’s almost always someone who thinks this life would be exciting. Someone without kids who thinks 2 boys would be fun or someone with a boring job who wished they had time to “figure it out” or someone who wished they could stay at home. Although, even I can’t do that.

It’s almost sad that the thought that some alien race controlling my decisions makes me feel better. It takes away my agency leaving me blameless for my current place in the world. As though everything happens to me, not because of me. Not because of my attitude about work and jobs and bosses. Not the fact that I’m too much. But because some alien didn’t have enough credits to purchase me a better education, or a better childhood, or a better self esteem.

In fact, if that alien could save up for the self esteem I feel the rest could fall into place. Self esteem must be pricey. I got not quite enough for a whole person, just a dash, but they purchased a helluva memory. Enough to remember every hurt and answer on Jeopardy. Just a little haze would save so much grief. Like why purchase so much anxiety? Or is anxiety built-in and the trick is to purchase enough sociopathy or happiness or ignorance that no one ever feels that rush of heat that keeps them from moving on? Maybe they're as scared as I am. With adulthood and being grown up, I mean. It’s possible they’re 15, which explains why I’ve always felt that age. And this life just got...away from them. And they don’t know what to do or how to make the adult decisions. So they guess. They guess at adulthood. “Howdy, howdy I’m an adult. I wear slacks and blouses and I enjoy brisket.”

I drove by my house today. It wasn’t my house, but it was my house. The same Sears house plan from 1928. The same arches and the same windows. The same chipping stucco and rotten sills. And parked in front was my car. The same black Volvo I was sitting in. And in that split second of seeing my house and my car I imagined my life there.

I was picking up flotsam and jetsam from the living room floor, harried as though I were expecting company. I was reminding my kids, my happy, well adjusted kids, that they needed to finish their homework. My house was clean and neat and new. The same but cleaner, more vibrant. The house seemed somehow,...happier. The eaves smiled with their shadows and the curtains winked in the open windows. The yard was bigger, I cooked. There was food on the stove with tendrils of steam curling upwards. I wore earrings and pumps. I had a job. A job I didn't love but paid the bills.

My alternate universe was pleasant. My other life was better. My other life was less complicated. My other life was still lonely, though. I could see it in my face. I was performing my life, not living it. Going through the motions of what I thought a life should be. But even with those seemingly better circumstances, I was still lonely. Even with less complications, I was still sad. The cycle doesn’t end. The alt-me is still bewildered, still mad. Even in my imagination I’m struggling. It’s bleak. Like a foggy day in February where even the fresh cut grass seems gray.