Regrets

How badly have I fucked up my life that when I'm abandoned on date night, I sit alone crying publicly on a park bench in a city where I don't have any friends who are close enough that I can just call them and ask to come over.

When I was younger, I thought it was very important to live without regrets, which sort of morphed into ruthlessly repressing any regrets I might feel. I've tried not to regret going to Berkeley, but let's admit it, I do. If I had chosen Rockefeller instead, I would probably be single, virgin, living in a cramped rental with roommates, still hanging out with the same social circles from high school, and probably a lonely mess in many ways. But I would not have depression, and I would have friends nearby I could count on and an immigrant community I belonged to.

If I could go back in time, I would smack my younger self, full of grandiose delusions about my Scientific Vocation, upside the head. It's amusing in a not very funny way that I spent a lot of time in adolescence pompously philosophizing about the importance of group identity but in the end, I still thought of myself as an independent individual. One of my friends, T—, told me back in high school, “You're all about the ego,” and I found it quite insulting at the time but she wasn't wrong, was she.

I will say though that being forced to dwell on how I've completely fucked up my life as a whole does put into perspective any smaller and less consequential fuck-ups that I have been upset and stressed about this week. What does one little recent failure matter compared to the vast sea of failures for which I'm still continuing to do penance? I guess it's the Catholic in me that keeps returning to the idea of penance. I thought rather longingly how much of a relief it would be to just walk into traffic and let a bus hit me, but that would be too kind, wouldn't it? No, I don't deserve relief until I've done sufficient penance through suffering the consequences of my bad decisions.

In any case, I can't die as long as there are people dependent on me.

I do think I need to stop wanting approval. It's funny how people can love you while also sincerely believing you're not good enough. Sometimes, trying to become a better person in their eyes could be motivating and inspirational. But my neuroses make it toxic. It's liberating when you accept that you'll never be the person they expect you to be.

The mental boundary is what's important. I have responsibilities as a wife, as a mother, as a daughter, and I should continue to try to fill those roles better than I am currently doing. But I don't owe anyone my thoughts and feelings. In a way, it is good to approach personal relationships the way you would approach work. You want to do a good job of course. But you don't need to expose your inner life in the process.

Eight hours of work, eight hours of family, eight hours of sleep. Where within all that is there time for thinking? My therapist keeps asking me when do I get to put myself first, when do I get to be me. I resist that framing a lot but it makes more sense if I ask instead, when do I get to think. When I read about creative women, they all seem to carve it out in liminal moments. Maybe that's what I should focus on: ways to give myself space to think while I carry out my responsibilities. Think my own thoughts and not just consume other people's thoughts.

Maybe even five minutes a day to be alone with myself and just think. Is that what Didion meant by self-respect?

But I shouldn't forget that I do have friends I can count on no matter what. None of them might be here in this city, but they are there for me. It's all right to need as long as you know who to ask. I'm very grateful for that good fortune. It takes years and years to build up a connection but it's worth it. That at least is something untainted by regret.