I don't always tell you everything.
Sometimes, a lot of times lately, I feel sorry for myself. I think life is unfair. I wonder why good things happen to other people and not to me.
I don't say any of that because it's ridiculous. It's ridiculous. Plenty of good things have happened to me. More than to most. And anyway, look at my life. A roof over my head (for the next 21 days). Many offers of couches on which to sleep. Family, friends. Sympathy, kindness, food, clothes on my back. Money in the bank, or enough of it, anyway. When it comes right down to it, I want for very little.
So many other people feel so much pain of which I can't even comprehend. Poverty, death, disease, persecution. And me? Just because I don't have a job or leads or a place to live -- in some ways by choice -- I feel as though my life is shit? Please. White people's problems, they say, even though I'm not white.
I don't know what's wrong with me sometimes. I really don't.
I've been a little down lately. But tonight, as I walked through Tribeca toward Locanda Verde, where I had dinner plans (yes, go ahead and say it, lucky me), I walked down cobblestone streets straight toward the sunset, the sky a spectacular shade of pink, or as a friend of mine once wrote to me, the color of peach merengue.
I looked at that sky and I thought, this is here and now, and I am present, and I am grateful. How can I feel anything but wonder, when there is this? Looking at that breathtaking sunset shimmering between the buildings of New York... I felt lucky. I felt lucky to be here, and lucky to stay and live in this great city if I should be so fortunate. Come what may.
Then I had a wonderful dinner at Locanda Verde with my former boss and his wife. I can still taste the crispy artichoke and yogurt on my tongue; it was tangy and sweet and God knows what but it was fantastic.
And then, on the way home, something happened -- I read an email or I stumbled on a cobblestone or the sky changed color, it doesn't matter -- and as I came home, the sunset and the dinner shrank away, and I was sad. I tried to get it back, but it was gone. The weight of my life, of self-pity and injustice and irritation and rage, pulled me in and down. I felt resentful and sorry for myself and my feet dragged like they were in cement, and all I could think to myself was, "Jesus Christ, what is wrong with you? Why can't you just be happy that good things happen to other people? What the hell is wrong with you? Just be happy for other people."
This is a public space, the Internet, and so I seldom say what I feel, especially these days. I am writing this because it's what I feel right now. I know what it sounds like. There is a 95% chance I will delete it tomorrow. Scratch that. 99%.
Don't feel sorry for me. That is not the point.
Tomorrow I will keep packing up my boxes and I will look for a job and I will think about the future and I will persevere, but today I am weak and I am hurting and I am small, and for once I wanted to say it. That's all. Forgive me. I am human.
