Like most kids who had a strong preference for staying by themselves, I wrote in a journal. I remember only one sentence now. I must’ve been ten or eleven when I scribbled: one day, I will show everyone what I can do. A very noble sentiment, of course, but to what end?
While I don’t think of myself and success in the same sentence, I have collected a few laurels over time. I got out of the city, out of the house, and on occasion, out of my head. The last one was the hardest thing to do, still is.
For the past decade, which is half of my life so far, I have not let myself catch a single breath. The kid who had journaled that sentence over a decade ago did show people what he could do. He became the poster child for how to carry oneself in his tiny corner of the world.
He was happy. I felt this exhaustion I couldn’t describe in words alone. The appreciation was music to his ears. It was raucous to mine.
“I like how you do things. How do you do so much? Can you tell me how to get started? Do you read a lot? I like how you think. Your life seems so balanced. You’re a lifesaver, thanks! Your presence in my life inspires me.”
The theatre got better, more people showed up. They sang the same tunes; the kid was happy. As for me? If I was useful, I was loved. So, I kept going even when I wanted to sleep. I did things sober, drunk, tired and broken—all that for a few scraps of love.
One day, a tiny rope snapped. I didn’t care; the stage held still. It was all good. All I had to do was fix it. Then, another, and another, and another. Everything I had so intricately built started falling all around me. I hung there, suspended between the rafters, trying to keep it together. Unable to hold on, I let go. The jig was up.
I sat on the wreckage. I sat there for three days, I think, until I got off the bed to pick my journal up, almost spontaneously. I wrote: one day, I will be loved for who I am, not what I do.
I’ve only done what I wanted to do since then.