The year is closing, and with it comes a loneliness of a new hue. Last night I dreamt a friend of mine sent me a cover letter to review. It was for a job in Uganda at a nonprofit feeding and teaching children.
This isn't a farfetched dream for her. Only a few months ago, she was with her mother in Africa, proposing to local men for a green card. Perhaps they thought she was joking, as none of them said yes. She was ready for a huge leap into a new world. She's adventurous that way.
Then there’s me. I am stuck in the dark, a potato rotting in the back of the pantry, only really noticed once it begins to smell. I’ve been crying. Snot-dripping-into-mouth-crying on and off for two days over the stupidest things.
My big leap is a puddle jump compared to her. I switched jobs, but not really. I moved laterally from one organization to another: same position, same kind of work.
The only real shift was going from senior to freshman—so I feel as incompetent as ever. I know this is how it naturally should play out: growing pains, a learning curve, acclimation, adjustment.
If I were talking to a friend, I’d tell her this is normal. It is normal to feel out of place as you adjust to something new. It's normal to feel sad even if you made the right choice. Yes, I can tell myself all these things, yet the only path forward is to feel my way through.
My fears compound, the weight of one pressing on top of another. To be honest, as much as I crave human contact, I hate it right now. I feel like a flustered mess, as if every word, tone, noise, squeak, and wheeze of mine grates upon the bones of others.
I have forgotten how to be a person with other people. While my well of thought overflows when I’m alone, I can barely muster a handful of jumbled, stupid sentences for another person. They are nothing like what's in my head.
Though I have been in near-constant relationships since I was 14, I know I deserve and should be alone. I was born, raised, bred to be alone. My ability to truly love seems to have been beaten out of me. And at this point, it would seem that the feeling is mutual; people don't seem capable of loving me the way I want either.
What's more, solitude's eminent promise looms on the distant horizon. It scares me even more. Lately, I am cycling through five types of self-hatred, and there really isn't an end in sight. Just my own incompetence. Unwilling to stay the same and unwilling to change.
I keep telling myself all the things that are rational, logical, and make sense. I remind myself that in a few weeks, it will be different. I’ll be out of training at work and actually taking on responsibilities and tasks. I will miss all the down time. I will miss all these empty, quiet, lonely moments in my day.
What I really need is something other than me for a moment. I desperately need something outside of myself to confirm it. A hug. A sign that I’m okay. An affirmation. External validation.
Do you think anyone in my life, unprompted, would say, "You’re okay" to me? No. They are so busy. They are not in limbo like me. They are chasing dreams of Africa, raising children, becoming doctors, taking cruises, falling in love. Don't get me wrong. I love that for them. They earned it. I want them all to succeed.
But then there’s me. I'm just here. I can smell the rot, but I don't think anyone else can yet.
This morning my husband, the only human I talk to face-to-face, said, "You ought to think about if AI can take your job. Plan what to do. "
God. With where I'm at in this job, I barely know if I'm alive, and you say that to me. Add a new fear and incompetence to the pile.
Again, I tell myself, there's something on the horizon. This is growing pains. The learning curve. I've been here before. It always ends. But until then, I'm still just here, in the dark, waiting for the rot to be found. But no one's coming. I have to dig myself out.
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