In the early aughts, I had a feeling that I was unhappy. My life was somehow not fulfilling. Parts of me felt as though they were missing the the vigor of youth, even though I was still young. Unsatisfied, that is what I decided I was. This became a strong part of my inner narrative, and shadowed my view of everything.
Around 2006, things took a very bad turn, and so began a five-year journey of unemployment, underemployment, near-homelessness, debt, unprecedented depression, the loss of both of my cats, a complete break from the love of my life, drugs, bad living situations, extreme familial difficulties, watching my father die very slowly, and finally, a suicide attempt.
I look back now at 2000 to 2005 with some incredulity. What was it exactly about my life that was so horrible? I had a beautiful if imperfect home, a good job and still had some zest for life. My "dissatisfaction" lead me to create art projects. I fell in love twice. The heartbreak from those experiences, while obviously difficult, made me feel alive and caused me to learn a great deal about myself. I went on trips, I felt the sun, I listened to music as though it were my life's blood, I connected with people, I was generally a good friend. I tried to live a better life.
After the torrents of the last five years, things have calmed down now. But, like getting off a roller coaster, I still feel a bit sick. I still deal with depression and financial issues, a total lack of a love life, and an inability to see how anyone could ever love me. I feel numb usually. Because nothing seems worth it. I don't seek beautiful experiences and I don't create them. I am a writer who doesn't write. The last five years have spit me out, and here I am. Existing.
This is a whole lot more sad than feeling "dissatisfied." I wish I could tell my past self that there is nothing wrong with yearning for something more.
