F$@! The blanket of depression that was merely hovering on Thursday completely engulfed me last night. Halloween . . . a costume bought- perhaps, not perfect, friends, fun, dancing, and champagne had no ability to attract me. My night was instead one of tears. Thinking of Samantha’s blowfish analogy, I had become the perfect representation. My face bloated, wrinkled, and red. I cried. Read. And felt so very lonely. This trip to PR has been the first devoid of its magical ability to calm me and provide an effortless balance. My preceding trip to New York was also the first in which I began to find my cadence.
I don’t believe this blanket had one maker—rather a combination of various contributors. I was missing my newfound companionship in New York with the Journalist and the abrupt stop to promising relationship in its infancy with Dario, the Slavic breathe of fresh air. Knowing that the relationship could have flourished but was now simply a seedling left without nourishment. While I recognize that it will wait and be there upon my return, entering a world that is empty and leaving one that was fulfilling and promising provides a dramatic contrast that perhaps emphasizes the cons that always existed in PR.
Another contributor to this heaviness is one of my employees’ statements regarding a rumor from a wife that I party too much. This is far from the truth, but with this rumor in circulation, how can I easily portray a carefree party image when I venture out. Ironically, venturing out and having that persona may be the temporary antidote to my emptiness.
While contemplating this, I also realized some people happily own that party image while it is one I vehemently oppose. I think back to when my brother returned from the war and Bosnia after being gone for ten years- leaving me as a six year-old and coming back to a sixteen year-old, he transferred his teenage years onto me. I was barely a partier—social, but serious, too involved, too studious, too ambitious. The moments of partying were good for me. And I believe they still are. Yet, I can’t release the misguided judgments. Maybe, I simply hate when people perceive me to be something I am not. I wonder what other misperceptions truly affect me. Do judgments affect your actions?
It seems easy to normally act without regard to other’s opinions. Let them think what they will. However, here I am unable to shake it.
I wonder if it’s only misperceptions that challenge those qualities that define us, the ones that our aligned with our highest values . . . our identity.
Regardless, no me gusta Halloween and siento mejor. J I will write more about the Journalist and Dario later.