When I returned to the United States in January of 2016 after traveling for much of 2015, I was glad to be back. During the weeks preceding my flight home, I’d been looking forward to going back. I was homesick for my cats. I missed the light in my apartment. I couldn’t wait to share how my world had changed, and to hear how my friends’ worlds had changed too.
I imagined my coming home as a coming together of like minds, all of us finally grown up and ready to move forward. It had been a year, after all. A lot of growing can happen in a year.
The light in my apartment. (The light of my life in my apartment.)
The grown up.
That first week, many of the those I missed the most caught me up on how their lives hadn’t actually changed much at all. Others reported how their lives had actually grown, in short, shittier. Life was actually a bummer, dude.
As the weeks passed, many others had the same to say. Jobs still sucked. Traffic still sucked. People still sucked. L.A. still sucked.
Dreams didn’t come true and hopes were dashed. There were breakups and breakdowns, left outs and let downs. Families, exes, bosses, landlords, neighbors, friends, lovers, strangers, Netflix and Time Warner had continued to disappoint. Wrongs had not been righted. Old hurts still hurt. New hurts hurt more.
L.A. had pretty much punched the juice out of everyone’s pouch.
According to them, anyway.
Them. Me.
By February I was having daily panic attacks. Usually on the kitchen floor or in the shower. Sometimes in the car. Twice at the gym. Once at Petco.
For though it was clear to me that no one’s life was actually a bummer, dude, so many of my fellow Los Angelenos seemed fully vested in proving it so. Why so much complaining? Was this simply the American way? Was this simply the way of my friends? Had I just forgotten that we westerners are a bit of a gripey bunch? Or was there an accident at the lab, turning all of my Dr. Jekylls into Mr. Curmudgeons?
How could I be so wrong about everything, and what did that say about me?
(Hint: Nothing, because I’m awesome.)
But when your life is filled with people who hate theirs, hell starts to break loose in your heart.
You will have panic attacks on the kitchen floor and in the shower, sometimes in the car, possibly at the gym or store. You will look around at the once familiar, now growly faces that surround you and think, “Who the fuck are these people?” You will lose hair and lose sleep. You'll want to run or die or eat a Costco party box of chocolate icecream sandwiches with your Trader Joes three buck chucks. You will take Kizomba classes and punch the Kizomba teacher.
Violence-free Kizomba on the streets of Paris.
They mostly come out ALL DAMN DAY.
So how do you safeguard your heart, and your sanity, when the lovers you come home to are the haters you can't escape?
You ready your guard, guns and grenades. Fear of change is both fast and furious, sweet and seductive. It'll stick in your noggin, sour your dreams and suck the life right out of you. But because it's served by those who say they serve you (though they starve themselves), you might be tempted to eat that baloney up. Don't. Because all that those who love (and hate) you really want is to know that they are not alone–even in their misery.
Of course, the truth is, they will never be alone. There are curmudgeons a-plenty to go around. So if you like your life, or want to change your life whether you like it or not, but are surrounded by a harem of haters, you're going to have to jump ship and, quite possibly, go at it alone for a while.
No baloney.