In a Mood

I am in a mood. Been in a mood. 

I think that the scariest thing about my mental health situation is that if I ever stopped talking about it, I could hide it forever. I am phenomenal at pushing it aside. In the past year or two, I’ve stopped faking it because it does more harm than good. I feel so comfortable talking about it; I’ve normalized telling my friends that my anxiety is acting up. It’s good!

But, sometime shame and embarrassment kicks in. I want to be happy, go-lucky all the time. I really do. Sometimes I feel like I’m tanking the mood by telling people I’m not doing so well. Sometimes, my problems seem so ridiculous and pathetic that I just don’t want to tell anyone or talk to anyone. Because if I talk about it, it makes it all real. So, I remember I can fake it. I really can. No one would ever know that I’m struggling. And so, all the pressure is on me to talk about it because the second I don’t; things get problematic.

It has indeed been a while, blog of mine. It feels weird to post when I’m happy. Happy doesn’t sell. No one wants to watch a movie about some guy who is always happy. There’s no plot and no stakes. Also, it would just make us all jealous and resentful of the happy guy. We’d be like, “why is he so much happier than us?” 

Speaking of happiness, I actually don’t believe in it anymore! For real. I don’t. I think that the dream of being a “happy person” someday can be destructive. It paints an emotion as something to be attained. We need to be happy in perpetuity by the time we are 40. That seems unrealistic. I am happy somedays. Then other days, I am sad. Eliminating the sad days is impossible and counter-productive. Especially for me. I have an anxiety disorder, and no matter what I do, it is going to ruin a few days here and there. My goal is to mitigate the sad days. I want to lessen their impact. I want to learn to overcome them quicker.  The sad days aren’t going away! Ever. But, I can sharpen my defenses against them.

I don’t want to pursue a happy life anymore. I want to pursue happy moments. I want to be in a happy present, and I think I’m improving slowly. I accept my worst moments and I strive to experience my best moments. I don’t think I’ll ever have some mythical moment where I realize I am truly happy. But, I think that when it’s all said and done, I will recognize that I live doing things worth doing.  

I really left Norton. I moved out. I’m gone, and I highly doubt that I will ever be back. I will set foot in the town again obviously. But, live there? I don’t think so. I miss the people. I miss the friendships. But, the truth is that it is never going to be like it was. I live in Providence now, and I am thrilled to be here with these people. And after school, I will be somewhere else I suspect. Somewhere farther than Providence. I miss my friends. I really do. 

I remember early in my senior year of high school, I reached a point where I realized that nothing in my life would ever be the same. I’ve discussed this before. I was a leader on the soccer team, lost my shyness, went to parties, asked out a girl, and I began my college search. All of that was new and exciting, but every single one of them was nerve-wracking. Before all of that, I knew that I was holding myself back in life because I was anxious. I knew I wasn’t going to parties and I wasn’t talking to girls. I wasn’t very good at soccer and I wasn’t ready to think about college. I was afraid, and the thing I always told myself was that, “I was too good a person.”

In my mind, I would shame others, the people I was jealous of. 

“Oh, of course he made the team. He’s a total asshole.”

“I would have a girlfriend too if I was drinking and smoking instead of studying.”

“But, I don’t do that.”

That was my rally cry. I thought that the mark of a good person was to not want things. I would just let life pass me by because it was easy, and I called it moral. 

Senior year, desire finally got the better of me. I needed to be great at soccer. I knew that I had to play on that team no matter what it took. So, I walked on that field and played like an asshole. I remember in a game, I fucking ran through a kid’s leg. His leg was stretched out and I just ran through it. I wasn’t trying to hurt him, but I also didn’t care if I did. The play went on, and the kid was rolling on the ground screaming and crying. He was injured. I didn’t even look back. Play ends, and he gets helped off the field, and one of his teammates starts getting in my face. I didn’t say a word, just smiled. The younger me would’ve been really really scared by the whole ordeal. All I cared about now was winning the game with my team. 

I brought that mentality everywhere. I went for the things I wanted. I put my schoolwork aside and I put my ridiculous moral code aside. I started cussing. I started being mean. I started to go to parties. I talked shit, and I expressed myself when I was angry or when I was sad. The whole time, my anxiety told me that I was becoming a bad person. But, nothing was ever going to be the same. 

Now, I feel that way again. Nothing is ever going to be the same. I’ve been on a long journey with my brain. I’m a year into therapy, 4 years into medication, and 21 years into my life. I’ve been around the block a few times to the point that I know that there’s a lot I still don’t know. I used to think I knew everything. Not anymore. But, when it comes to this, what you’re reading right now. I’m really fucking good at this. 

I understand people. I understand, I sympathize. I get it. I know what makes a good person, I just don’t think that I am one. I get a lot of praise for what I do here and what I do in my life. People have so many nice things to say about me. Now, more than ever, I think that people feel that I am “good.” I am flattered and grateful. I disagree though. When I was a kid, I thought that I was good and everyone else was bad. Now, I think that everyone is good and I am not. 

I want to be good. I do. I’m a loyal friend and I’m an honest friend. I’m a loyal son too. I’m a loyal brother. I have a level of understanding for all the people in my life. I get them. I want them to succeed. But, does any of that make me good?

I had a roommate about a year ago. We were in a shitty situation with COVID and all. When we moved in together, we were close friends. Then, things went sour. Really sour. We both ended up miserable, and we both think it’s the other’s fault. The truth is that I don’t care who’s fault it was because I blame him. I think he’s awful. And, I’m right. 

But, the reason I’m right isn’t because God came down and judged us and decreed that my roommate was an asshole and I wasn’t. The reason I’m right and he is wrong is because I can do this. I can write it better than he can. I can say it better than he can. I can communicate better than he can. So, the story gets written by me, and he’s the villain. Because I’m better at stories.

So, do you see? Sometimes, I am afraid that I mistake being good for being good at stories. Am I a good person or am I just really good at telling a story where I’m the hero?