It takes a lot of energy to be scared. To take the stairs, every time, because the shutter of an elevator gives you a panic attack. To lie awake at night, terrified that the roof will collapse on you in your sleep. To arrange your week around the seclusion you desperately need every other night. To feel the weight of disappointment as you decline yet another invitation from your friends. To drink away the sharp edges of your anxiety.
It takes a lot of energy to be self-indulgent. The hours spent at work so you can afford your weed. The paranoia of being caught with it. The hearing neighbors in the hallway, half deluded by some fantasy in your head that they’re cops and you’ve finally done it. The time wasted diving into seedy forums to download obscure porn, for yet another three-hour marathon session you feel you’ve earned. More slaving away in the office so you can afford your porn. The shame of having told yourself you’d never pay for the sick things you get off to, and now look at you.
It takes a lot of energy to be drunk, all the time. The arms full of grocery bags containing all the rum you’ll need to not hate yourself another weekend. The nervous chuckle that can’t be helped in social events, trying to play it straight, asking, “so, when are we cracking open the bottles?” Waking up every day with a hangover. Scheduling two days a week working from home so you can work Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and then drink yourself to oblivion the other four days. Missing meetings that needed your input. Getting absolutely berated by your coworkers. Being shitty at what you do, and not caring, because you’re too busy getting smashed.
It takes a lot of energy to long. To yearn. To concoct some fairy tale in your head about lost love. To compare real, caring people to mirages of the past, to things that simply don’t exist. To become spiteful. Saving ammunition, every lover’s imagined misstep, held on to for retaliation later. To toss money at the now countless problems that make up your waking hours. To disappear inside your head, far too afraid to face your life like an adult. To run away, to break hearts, to not deserve a second of the love you throw away. To be alone, rejected, unable to undo the pain you’ve caused.
It takes a lot of energy to be abandoned, finally, in quiet sadness, left to self-destruct. It takes so much.
But there is no it: there’s only I. I did all that.
And then I did this.
I worked hard enough for a raise. And then a promotion. And then a job overseas. I said goodbye to my home, and my declining friendships. I made phone calls I was afraid to make. I scheduled cleanings, move-outs, goodbye dinners, doctor’s appointments. I packed what fit into fifteen boxes, and gave away the rest. I said one tearful farewell.
This isn’t a story of redemption. I haven’t redeemed myself. I don’t require redemption.
This is a story about awareness, opening my eyes, seeing the patterns, and finally, finally, doing something about it. Of realizing how much time I spent in a wasted state of mind. Of realizing how much fucking energy I was wasting, every single day, just treading water because of how much I held myself back, subdued myself, killed my enthusiasm for anything.
But now there are miles to run, push-ups to do. Books to read, stories to write. Code to fix, strangers to meet, mountains to ski, jobs to be done well, and promises to keep. And all those wonderful things I was just so blind to—
I need every drop of my energy, now, for every day. Because it takes so, so much.
↼ ∞ Vincent Quipatitur