Where am I now, at mid-century? In a place that on the surface feels comfortable though untidy. Peripheral vision, however, shows me this is a temporary situation. It must be. I have duties and obligations in other places which sooner or later must be addressed.
My days are apportioned with a modicum of energy. When that flags during the early evening hours, a depression comes upon me which I find difficult to override. Now, my current situation is not one I could have foreseen three and a half years ago. At the end of the last century, I would have believed life as it was would continue thus for a good many years, but everything changed the following spring. Fate had disappointments and surprises in store for me, few in which I thought to take a proactive role. Some in which I could not have done. And in those I believed I did, turns have led me here.
A dark April, my birth month, was succeeded by seasons of mental torment. Then I sought no direction, only release. The year turned and I discovered a new path, one I had never expected. I put on my walking shoes and tread, not lightly, but wholeheartedly in the belief that I was no longer a solitary wanderer, but had someone with whom to learn how to overcome wounding memory. This, in all honesty, was the truth. Now, I can say that. However, as time passed all I allowed to change was my base of operations. I brought my old personality with me into this new life. That was both probably unavoidable and certainly detrimental to effecting the change. If I had a hard time adjusting, it was because I made it so. I embarked on a new lifestyle and a new career; I met new friends—but still I am trying to recognize these in the light of my previous life. The results are disappointing, but like bad psychiatry, perceiving my dilemma is not helping me to change my outlook.
Still, the evening downturns arrive and take hold.
When judged on its own merits, life here in Chiapas is not so bad, and as John used to say, I am crying with egg in my beer, but when I recall my life in New York, the current scene comes up wanting, and I cannot forget he was also fond of relating the tale of the worm in the horseradish. Of course, I must also remind myself that that New York life I recall has moved into the realm of history and may no longer be attainable. It could be that that was my destiny all along—to replace my dreamed of, fictional, past with my lived past.
The scenario, then, is you cannot remember a life you did not live, but only read about, with veracity, but you can with that which was real for you as an individual, and be thankful that you were able to live it so. Many people, through circumstances, do not get to experience what you did, or they die too young to build such a packed storehouse of memories. Then again, many people, probably the smartest, do not rely on memory at all to verify their existence. I envy those who can truly enjoy their present moments to the extent that previous unhappiness holds no sway. Álvaro always tells me to calm down.
“Why do you always upset yourself?” he asks. “Live the moment.” You cannot change the future, nor the past, for that matter, but it is so hard to relax into that advice. I have never been able to do it. John used to tell me that also, so I guess it’s a chronic inability. With all I have done, however, and all that I may yet do—that anyone would be glad to experience—I feel unable to lift this veil of ennui.
My greatest fear is that someday I will die a sad person without justification.
