8 Minutes

content warning: grief

I pour dairy free creamer into my coffee and stir.

Lately I’ve been thinking about the years moving faster and faster as we age, a kind of centrifugal force ever-increasing on us until what, exactly? My roommate said it’ll slow down again in our thirties, that it won’t always feel like days go by in blinks and next month’s looked forward to parties become film pictures developed and handed back the day after before you can finish your beer (thanks, Downtown Camera). Is that true? Is it going to get slower?

I spread spicy antipasto onto my grocery store bagel.

A half decade ago (take a shot every time I reference my adolescence in these), I thought life was something to be muscled through, a la Sisyphus. Life felt long. But life ended up being not a never-ending uphill boulder push, but instead a parabola shape in which I pushed the boulder up the hill until about 21, and now I somehow reached the top of the hill, got on the other side of the boulder, and have raced through the last couple of years down the hill while the boulder chases me: some real y = -x(2) bullshit, if I’m remembering math class correctly, but I flunked calculus who who’s really to say. The point is, it looks like this:

And I am displeased with it.

I scratch my dog behind the ears and sit at our folding dining table.

It makes sense why I was muscling through life until lately. That guy was closeted, convinced he was going to hell, that guy was also unmedicated and chock full of maladaptive coping mechanisms I won’t get into.

That guy’s mom was dying.

This guy’s mom is dead, which I have recently learned is only somewhat better. I’ve been running from the boulder since she passed, and I haven’t looked back, haven’t really grieved. It’s not an uncommon phenomenon among folks who lose parents young, I’m not claiming to be god’s special little emo meow meow or whatever. But it’s true all the same, I’ve been running, and there’s no actual boulder coming to crush me. I partially blame productivity culture. My whole life I’ve been rewarded for ultra productivity, slamming through tasks with fervour and caffeine has only won me modest laurels I have no time to rest on. So, when shit hits the proverbial fan, I slam through it. I won grieving, not crying at her funeral, not seeking comfort in anything but what’s coming next.

I boot up my new laptop, which replaced my old one that croaked on me a few months ago.

Except you can’t win grieving. And while no boulder will come and crush you, you will eventually run out of breath and maybe break a leg or throw up or something. I learnt that the hard way through the emotional burnout creeping into the edges of my eyeline for the last 6 months. I live a wonderful life. I am privileged, happy, and fulfilled. But from the bottom of my toes to pit in my chest I am tired. It’s time to stop dashing through the next few years, stop and think for a second.

Yes, for someone who considers themself at least a little tiny bit smart, I sure will do anything to avoid thinking. I’ll do anything to pacify myself. It’s not flattering but it’s true. However, I owe it not just to myself but to my mom’s memory to slow down and give her the thought she deserves. I’m turning 24 soon, and it’s time to admit I’m not Indiana Jones any more than I was Sisyphus.

I click on to my first zoom meeting of the day. 8 minutes have elapsed.