I am, I think, sad.
I sit here on my perch, thinking about my relationships. I’m lucky to have so many, to have friends and acquaintances the world over, though these days, in the era of the internet, it’s not all that uncommon.
What does feel unique is the type of person I gravitate toward: older. I have always been drawn to older people, likely by virtue of being an only child. There was no one else my age around, so I learned to relate to older people.
When you’re raised by older people, you learn to raise other people. I’ve learned by watching those raising me to help other people. To most, this seems to be a positive thing, an attribute. And of course it is! But it’s become a compulsion, too, and I’m wearing myself thin from all of it.
I’ve noticed that I spend much of my time with others asking questions. Only recently have I come across that infamous Dale Carnegie quote, “to be interesting, be interested,” of which I’m slightly embarrassed given its context. But there’s truth in it. And for the last few months, I’ve been hoping to be asked those very same questions with reflected curiosity.
I haven’t felt terribly satisfied in my relationships. I haven’t felt seen or heard or ‘known’ in a way that feels deep and meaningful. I feel alone.
I wonder what I’m doing wrong. I’m quick to demur, to turn questions around, to ask about others. It’s probably deflection as much as habit, a learned midwestern behavior. But while I love talking about myself, I also feel terribly self-conscious when doing so. I worry people feel I’m taking up too much space. This is partly due to my experiences of the last few years, of being in groups where identity has paramount, where I am above all a very privileged white man. Why should I take up even more space than I already have?
(This is the corrosive effect of identity politics: it really does trap us in boxes, it limits our imagination, it separates us from others. But that’s a digression for another time.)
For now, I’m just feeling disconnected. I’ve ended a Relationship, and many of my close relationships are with people far away. I’m watching people I care about age a little faster than expected, though I’m approaching 40 and reminding myself it’s time to begin to be ready to usher out the previous generations. This is abjectly horrifying. In a few years, I will be alone.
This anxiety manifests in strange ways. I resent other people my age for making things look so easy. Careers, Relationships, children, the way they refuse to put their lives on hold for others. Putting my life on hold is all I’ve ever known, and while it’s born of fear, it’s also born of caring, of stewarding others. (Maybe so that I don’t have to steward myself?) I take on projects, as I’ve been told. Confused or angry young men become surrogate younger brothers. Clients and neighbors become wards. My ex-partner told me recently that he “wishes he had a partner, but instead what he got was a therapist.” He’s not wrong.
It’s this very thing that keeps me from others. I am happiest, most content, when things in my life feel complete, and nothing feels complete about the mess of most people. Their anxieties and the volatility that flows from them is deeply unsettling. Only when I’m around others do I feel as though I may be on the autism spectrum, as I just cannot seem to handle their complexities.
But I’m discontented with relationships. I want something more. I want someone to sit across from me and ask with matched intensity how I’m doing. How am I feeling? How does it feel to begin the process of preparing for the deaths of people I love? (Preparing for death is something most people never do.) How does it feel to watch so many people at once start the pivot toward the ends of their lives?
It isn’t easy.