When did we get lost?

On Living: Losing myself, losing us, losing joy

My son has been sick all week. He has streptococcus pneumoniae and has had to have breathing treatments and antibiotics. I’m sick now, too. Not with strep but with something. Despite feeling under the weather, I've upheld this newsletter for two years without missing a week. So, here I am, seated at my desk, surrounded by a stack of tissues and a half-empty bottle of Vitamin C, attempting to write. I set out to write about how much my partner and I kicked ass at taking care of our sick toddler, each other, and ourselves during this very brutal week, but this piece ended up being about something else entirely. That’s the thing about writing—you don’t always know where it’s going to take you

In the beginning, we lived in a crumbling apartment in the city by the sea. We could hear the boats creaking and the gulls laughing and palm trees crackling in the sun. The Venice boardwalk, with its tourists and street performers and midday mimosa specials, was just a ten-minute walk away, but we mostly stayed indoors fucking because the relationship was new; this is how all new relationships begin, or at least, that’s how all of mine have started. 

We fucked and we read books and talked about our dreams and sometimes we fired up the rusted barbecue on the back patio to grill nectarines from the farmer’s market or eat heirloom tomatoes over the sink. Whenever we did leave the apartment it was to catch the sunset over the Pacific and laugh at the dogs playing on the shore. In the evenings, we drank whisky, and sometimes wine, without ever glancing at the time. We fucked some more and fell asleep sweaty and blissful, listening to the boats knocking against the docks in the marina. 

---

---

What I’m trying to tell you is that life was simple. It was about sex and sunshine and sometimes the ocean. There was nowhere to go and everywhere and it didn’t matter to me either way. I felt free and alive and my responsibilities were few. Keep a job. Pay the few bills I had. Keep my thirteen-year-old dog alive with as much love, water, and food as she would accept. Find the cheapest gas station to fill up the tank of my used Pontiac. That was pretty much it. I could live off very little and be happy. I didn’t shop organic or read self-development books or go to therapy or meditate or rest, but it didn’t matter because I was young and I was happy and there was more joy in my life than anything else.

Twelve years later, we are no longer at the beginning. I’d like to think we’re somewhere in the early middle, perhaps still somewhat closer to the beginning, but not quite at the start.

Twelve years later, the responsibilities are a mountain, an avalanche, a goddamn tsunami. We own a home, which is a responsibility in and of itself—talk about bills. Bills that I have to organize and track and pay on time. We are married, which comes with its own set of responsibilities that I never saw coming like keeping up prolonged intimacy, adapting to shifting needs and emotions, dealing with the fallout when the dreams we used to talk about didn’t pan out how we thought they would, and sitting through couple’s therapy without losing my mind over the mundane domestic bullshit we often discuss. We own a business, and then I own another one on top of that. I won’t bore you with all the responsibilities that come with that, but I can tell you it’s what keeps me up at night. We are in credit card debt for the first time in my entire life. When did it become so hard to live within our means? When did we start needing so much? Maybe it’s the pandemic. Maybe it’s inflation. Maybe it’s us. My aging, once meth-addicted mother lives with us—in our home, in the room that was once our guest room. And as much as she can be helpful, it’s not an ideal living situation. Lastly, but most importantly, we have a son. Our greatest responsibility, but also the main thing that brings us joy. He is joy and nothing else, most definitely the best thing that has ever happened to us, but still—a mountain, an avalanche, a goddamn tsunami of responsibility. 

---

---

I guess what I’m trying to say is that I didn’t think getting older would feel quite like this. I thought buying a home would give me more freedom. I wouldn’t have to be renting from shitty landlords or worry about SWAT teams running up and down the stairs in the middle of the night, busting down my neighbor’s door. I thought owning my own business would give me more time. I wouldn’t be glued to a desk from nine to five, begging to take time off just to watch my grandfather die from cancer. I thought moving out of Los Angeles would mean we’d have more space, more money, more time to live and travel. I thought my Mom getting sober would make our mother/daughter relationship easier. I thought I’d be happy then.

And in ways, I am happy. Maybe I have more freedom. Maybe I have more time. But besides my son, somewhere along the way, I lost my joy. I lost my ease. I lost what it means to feel free. And if I’m being honest, I don’t know how to get back there.

Do you?

Joy [us] on film

---

If you enjoyed this piece, you may also like this one…