life at half-mast
Her life faded into a shadow of its former shine.
Inertia was all that sustained her.
From the outside, it wasn’t clear what she was looking for. Yet wherever she went, she found herself. Again and again and again, that thing she needed was missing. Majestic cities and domestic normalcy failed in cycled turns to fix the ache.
Decisions in her life led her to where she was, but had she even made them? She’d moved away from home at 18, been to school, left for work, went across the country, committed to boyfriends, dedicated herself to a career, traveled across the world, found a fiancé, and traveled again to a new hemisphere. How much of that had been up to her, and how much had just been the momentum from one choice leading to the next?
She once felt light and cheerful, but part of her spirit was stolen — or perhaps she gave it away. It was hard to tell the difference, now.
Devotion to a career hadn’t bestowed purpose, as was promised. Devotion to men yielded much the same. Family relationships brought temporary reprieve, too quickly replaced by family expectation crunching her into rubble.
Hope was another casualty amongst the wreckage. Everyone needed something. For every person who wanted something from her, she wanted something back, yet she was left perpetually disappointed.
A new place, a new man, a new apartment, a new promotion, these all gave the promise of rebirth. Yet still, misery rumbled like a summer storm through her life, seeking commiseration. Miscommunication clawed at her relationships, slashing them to ribbons. Tattered strips of confrontation and disagreement hung in the breeze, viewed from afar with detached acceptance.
On clear days, repairs seemed well at hand. But when the clouds loomed, negativity overwhelmed generosity and care, revealing the erosion for what it was.
So much easier to outsource decisions than to grapple with her own failings and triumphs. Abdicating choice to others was maligned by most, but it brought about ease — not choosing meant not having chosen wrong.
Some tried to help in their own time. That was the common refrain — trying to help — a slogan that transfixed her problems into stubborn malaise, transforming her into a problem to be solved. Unsurprisingly, the judgement of her would-be helpers failed her too.
Fathers didn’t know how to express themselves. Mothers tried to solve too much, too fast. Grandmothers were too sweet or too mean. Sisters took steps back, fading into quiet contemplation. Friends disappeared against the shorelines of other cities, other continents.
Brothers climbed the highest, and fell the farthest. The ones most sure of themselves and their path were the quickest to offer advice. They didn’t know a thing, though, about themselves or about her. It’s quite the god complex to imagine that one could command happiness upon another.
A truer God would have the answers — to tell her where to move and what to eat and who to hate and how to live. He just hadn’t returned her calls. Settling for translations from priests and therapists and lovers would have to do.
So she moved forward, propelled by the momentum of her past, rolling into the next commitment, the next season.
Easy, fast, it’s fine, no stress, no expectation, everyone’s got problems, it’s fine, meh, they’re trying their best, it’s fine.
And, eventually she forgot.
She forgot what promise once held for her. She neglected the boundless potential of life, succumbing to a lower threshold. Being there was enough. And tomorrow, she’d be there again. Those were the familiar limits of a hope she’d come to know.
As for the others, from the outside, they couldn’t see her life, not really. They didn’t experience her joy or excitement or peace. Those were all filtered through their annoying demands and failed expectations.
A loyal companion to care for seemed like a burden to them. A man whose love she could return appeared as a distraction from needed introspection.
They didn’t know her anymore. Bright potential flooded her life, maybe, or maybe it didn’t — either way, they were blinded by the darkness.
Today I’m sad, grieving. Unable to help or understand, my worry spills across the page. Or I could be wrong.
