During a conversation with friends earlier this evening, I was once again reminded that I'm technically old enough to be a grandfather.
This feels especially odd, given that I don't have kids (critters notwithstanding).
It's also somewhat panic-inducing.
A part of my day job involves editing and publishing obituaries. I see life after life summarized in two or three glowing paragraphs, detailing lists of amazing accomplishments, and family members left behind.
Because I have depression and think about death a lot, I sometimes try to write my own obituary. And that's where the panic usually sets in—because I have nothing to say. Do I even have a legacy, besides a mastery of sarcasm and an impressive collection of memorized movie quotes? I feel like I peaked twenty years ago, and the time since then has just been one long screw-up-a-palooza.
"He suffered from prolonged bouts of anxiety and depression, so he mostly stayed home, dangling things in front of his cats for entertainment. They ate his body when he died, which cut down on funerary costs and the need to buy more cat food." -My obituary, probably.
<<Side note: Whenever I die, somebody better damn well take care of my critters. I don't care *if* they ate me, you scoop my corpse out of that litter box and you love those FURRY LITTLE ANGELS. End side note.>>
I've come to realize it is human nature to see the worst versions of ourselves. How many times have I written something just to think "this is rubbish" (I think it in a British accent because of Harry Potter), before chucking it in the recycle bin? I've written many pieces I thought were crap, but it made someone cry. Not because of the poor writing quality, but because it moved something in their soul. (Art truly is the best magic.)
I envy people who know who they are, and are themselves with confidence. Most days, I don't even know which t-shirt to wear. I usually default to Star Wars, because those are my cleanest and have the fewest holes. (What about dress shirts, you ask? Who am I, the Pope? Calm down, moneybags.)
My point is, in my more lucid moments, I realize that this is just what being a human is all about. None of us are truly happy; not always, at least. Social media posts aren't the real story, kids. We make what we can with what we've got, and we don't always do the best job at it. I have several friends that I greatly admire that have confided in me that they feel much as I often do: worthless. Like they're failing at this whole "being human" thing. Yet—at least to my point of view—they are a hero, and an inspiration to me. They'd laugh if they knew this, but it's true. It's partly why I'm writing this.
Amanda thinks I'm the bees knees (my words not hers), and that keeps me trucking along most days. Many of you have said truly kind things to me over the years that I didn't deserve, yet greatly appreciated. Don't think I've ever forgotten that kindness, partly because I'm rather obsessive about it, but also because this world could do with a bit more love. As a wise man once sang, it's all you need. If it could pay rent, I'd be GOLDEN.
I know someone, right now, has their own personal demon whispering sweet "you-are-nothings" in their ear. You don't feel like you're doing it right. You feel like you messed up. Trust me, I feel you. Been there, got the t-shirt, and it has holes in it.
However, whether you believe it or not, you're a hero. Or maybe a villain, if you're into that sort of thing. I'm not here to judge; just cheer you on as you pass me wheezing on the side of the road. (Don't mind me.)
Remember this: none of us gets out of this alive, and some of us might get eaten by cats. Maybe we shouldn't take this whole thing quite so seriously?
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