Thirties

This is the part of the blog where I type something sincere and morose all at the same time as we head into a new year. 

I don't know if I have the energy for that today. 

Truthfully, 2014 was a transformative year for me. Literally. I transformed from a person in her twenties to one in her thirties. I don't know about you, but to me that's a pretty fucking big change. 

Otherwise, this year has been both significantly different and same from all the ones that came before it. Same because I wasted yet another year. Because I spent much of it in a deep depression. I failed to form new and lasting social connections with anyone. Different because I traveled more this year than I ever have before. I became the godparent to a little boy in whose life I feel a deep investment and commitment. 

I gained more acceptance for my different-ness this year. I am as a good friend of mine put it, 'weird'. I own it. I lean into it. I don't feel the need to struggle against it (not that I felt that before but I did feel discomfited by the knowledge of my otherness). 

It's been both terrible and great. Isn't that what the great writers and poets keep going on about? Isn't this ultimately what life is like for most people? 

So here's the thing. Happy New Year. As much as things change, they stay the same. As much as you transform, something of you always remains. And that's not a bad thing. 

62

Had he been alive, that's how old he would be today.

It's been a time of great excitement but also some strife for my family. My brother is getting engaged and hopefully married soon. In all this time, we have thought of my father exactly not at all. How can someone who should be so important not be a factor at all in the most important event of his son's life? 

It's just all terribly sad. 

I don't think I miss him very much; just the idea of him. There are all these people in my life now that he never met. If I ever meet someone that I choose to marry, he will never meet that person. He will never know the girl his son has decided to spend the rest of his life with. 

Gone and maybe almost forgotten. But not quite. Not yet.

I am Not a Successful Adult.

I'm so glad for you. I really am. 

I'm thrilled that you know how to be happy. Your holiday photos are all captured in that perfect twilight, your hair is always in place or artfully dishevelled. Your wedding rings glint off the sunlight or moonlight in subtle ways that nevertheless make sure to remind the viewer that you have it figured out. 

I'm happy that you found the love of your life, or at least someone who will do. You go to dinner in pairs; twos, fours and sixes. Movie dates and trips to the beach are all mini adventures with your 'best friend'. Your status messages on Facebook are all exercises in trying to work the odious words 'hubby' or 'wifey' into the conversation. 

I'm proud of the fact that your hobbies are all mature and intellectual with just the right dose of Instagram-ready fun. Your sporting events and wine-tastings. Music concerts that must be reached in a caravan of newly-bought cars and enjoyed with the perfect glass of expensive brew. Just a little weed to show the world that you're still a rebel. Your plays and foreign language films, book launches and art galleries. 

I'm fascinated by the way you've chosen to acknowledge all the gifts in your life by giving a little something back to those less fortunate. Animal shelters, cancer, AIDS and violence against women are all the recipients of your largesse. Your Twitter posts helpfully link your followers to the right stories and the best ways to donate. You yourself have managed to attend a charity gala, run a marathon or buy a T-shirt to support your favourite cause. 

How wonderful it must be to have it all figured out by 30. How peaceful. How inducing of content sighs. 

Me? Oh well. Ummm. Well, you know. I'm unhappy, obviously. I don't know how else to be. Alone. Also. Completely. Lots of dinners and holidays for one. And looking forward to a lifetime of those. Plenty of nerdy comic books and gory actions movies for me. And no philanthropy to speak of. At all. 

I'm just here in my corner of the world, unfulfilled and incomplete in the world's eyes. In your eyes. I sense it in the pitiful looks I receive when I go places by myself. In the 'you go, girl' messages I receive. In the helpfully disingenuous complaints from my married friends about how lucky I am that I don't have to deal with a husband or wife who (insert adorable quirk here) and just won't listen. 

As a character on a sitcom said, "I am not a successful adult". Not according to you anyway. 

30, Dreaded

I turn 30 in a few hours. 

I don't remember how I felt when I turned 20. I know I had a party. More than that, I don't remember. Not long after that, I had my second bout of serious depression. 

At the threshold of 30, I think back to 20 and wonder what that girl would think of me now. I am nearly twice her size (not really, but it sure feels like it). I am friends with people she would never have spoken to and am estranged from people she loved with her whole heart. I still dislike most the things she did but have now added several new chapters to that list. I like and enjoy less than she did - fewer people, fewer things. And I am unhappier than she was.

I feel like she would have been impressed with the fact that I live in my own apartment, pay my own rent, travel on my own and buy whatever I like. She would be less impressed with the fact that in the 10 years since she turned 20, I have still not managed to learn the art of forming a connection with other human beings. I think she would be disappointed in my choices in life and love. I know she would think my job is cool. 

While it's interesting to think about what 'she' would think about, I am more concerned with what I think. 

And I think this: I am not happy to be turning 30 but resigned to it nonetheless. In about two days, I get on a plane and fly away to a ten day holiday with my mother and my best friend. Two weeks after that, I am headed to Russia. The week after that, I head out on another holiday with my best friend, this time to a quiet beach. I am reading two fascinating and interesting books (Donna Tartt's The Goldfinch and Carlotta Gall's The Wrong Enemy, in case you're interested). I have my next 5-6 books already lined up. I am about to author a major paper and then embark on an international tour to promote it. 

So here's the thing. I am fat, sad, single, pathetic and lonely but I am also fortunate in many, many ways. Maybe this next decade should be about leaning into the good things instead of dwelling on the bad. Maybe it should be taking the few things that I do like about myself and the very few things that I do enjoy and just being content with them. I am not likely to change drastically before 40 but maybe that's okay. Maybe what the next decade should really be about is the eradication of hope and the eventual disappointment it brings and instead focusing on acceptance and comfort.

Going Solo

As I've gotten older, I've started to take greater pleasure in and become less stressed by the act of going places by myself. Where in my teens I would have been deeply distressed about the possibility of even going to the bathroom in a restaurant by myself, I now go to entire countries alone. 

I have now entered the last few weeks of my 20s. In the past couple of years, I think I've just got fewer fucks to give and fewer similarly single and unattached friends, which means my prospects for company have significantly diminished. Rather than sit at home, though, I've decided simply to go places by myself. 

I now go to the movies alone all the time. My local cinema has these great reclining seats that on weekend afternoons go for really cheap. So I look up the movies I want to see, that I don't have anyone to go with, and just take my wallet and phone and go for it alone. I don't have to make idle chit-chat during the break, I don't have to share my snacks and I don't have to pause my movie-watching experience to explain plot points to anyone (a lot of the movies I watch are comic-book adaptations and as the resident nerd, I'm frequently called upon to explain what the thingamajig is, who did what with whom and why and where and so on). 

I also go to restaurants this way now. I take my book and just go. I get a lot of stares and sometimes a few giggles because I'm just sitting by myself in a crowded restaurant, but I find that it's quite enjoyable. I love good food. I love eating out and spend a lot of time and money on the activity. I also live in a great food city. I have foodie friends, but they aren't always available to have dinner on a Thursday night because of husbands or children or work or other friends. So rather than wait around for someone to become available, I just go with my book. I get time to read, which is something I have to carve out time to do, and I get to eat a great meal. Win-win. 

As for the solo holidays, that I've actually been doing for a while now. In this instance, this isn't necessitated by the lack of company; I actually just prefer going on holiday alone. First of all, apart from my mother and my best friend, I can't really spend extended periods of time in close quarters with anybody I know. Second, I don't like rushed or jam-packed holidays. I like sleeping late and taking naps on vacation. I like walking around cities more or less aimlessly. I don't like the countryside. I like reading on vacation. I don't need to see every monument or tourist trap in a place. In fact, the aspects of vacations I've enjoyed the least have usually been a 'must-see' for tourists that I felt obliged to visit. The Eiffel Tower in Paris or the Duomo in Milan or Buckingham Palace in London have been amongst the most boring places I've been. On the other hand, the Jewish Quarter in Paris, the bars along the canals in Milan and the Chinese food place in Camden in London have been the most fun. That's just how I'm wired. I unashamedly design my vacations around all the places I want to eat in cities. I only saw the Notre Dame in Paris because I looked up from the bookstore I had been dying to visit and had spent hours in, hardly realizing that one of the city's most famous monuments was just across the street. 

Given all my odd vacation quirks, very few people I know are actually interested doing things my way. And since I spend a lot of money on these trips and take hard-earned time off in order to be able to go on them, I don't see why I shouldn't have exactly the fun I want to have. 

I realize as I read this post back that I sound like a sad, pathetic and lonely person. That may be true. But I'm also a practical person who has considered the reality of her situation and am simply trying to make the best of it. Sometimes I think people get into relationships or married just so they can have someone to go places with. I don't really see partnership or marriage or companionship or babies in my future. At the same time, most of my good friends have ended up with these things, leaving me a little bit out in the cold. These are just the facts. So here's the thing, why should I deny myself the things I actually do enjoy just because I am all alone? Because people look at me funny or judge me for being alone? Why exactly should I care about those people or their opinions? I'd rather take pleasure in simple things like watching a funny movie or reading a great book while enjoying a fine meal. Even if that means going solo.

Navel-Gazing on a Tuesday

Robin Williams died yesterday. He killed himself. He was a great actor and a truly brilliant comedian. The word genius has been used repeatedly to describe him and I cannot find too many people who disagree. In all the tributes that have poured in since the news hit, the people who have worked with him or were his friends have talked about a man who was generous, kind and warm. 

And all I can think of is the line from Associated Press that says that he had been depressed for a long time. Like those celebrities and reality TV starlets who will visit and orphanage and drone on about how 'devastating' or 'difficult' it was for THEM to see all these poor, abandoned children, I have made another man's illness and death about myself. 

Because what I'm really thinking when I read the line is "Please don't let this happen to me". I can't imagine Robin Williams' life or his illness. He publicly battled addiction and I can't speak to that experience at all. He probably had incredibly high highs and terribly low lows. But I do know what it's like to wake up every morning with the thought of ending it all. 

I've been in the throes of depression now for almost two years. Every time I think that the end is in sight, that my spirits have lifted, that the fog is clearing, it slams back into me with force. I've always been a touch suicidal, but during my bouts of depression, there is an overwhelming urge to kill myself. I have to actively fight this urge every single day, sometimes every single moment. 

So when I think of Robin Williams now, I am picturing how relieved he must have been when he finally decided to give in and stop fighting. That is what scares me. I am afraid that I will soon be too exhausted, too fried, to be able to continue listening to my better self.

What a self-involved person I am, to turn someone else's story into a moment of self doubt and introspection. 

3 Minutes

When I woke up this morning, I didn't remember. For around 3 minutes, I lay in bed thinking about whether I wanted to get up immediately or not. Whether my jeans were still drying. Was I hungry? And then through the haze came suddenly the realization that it was the 2nd of July. 

For 3 whole minutes this morning, I didn't remember that my father died today, 14 years ago. What kind of person does that make me?

A Big Time Fuck-Up-To-Be

I know this blog is usually rife with my depressed musings or cryptic natter about the people I currently hate, but today I will be commenting on something really important: How badly DC is mishandling its cinematic universe. 

Growing up, I was much more familiar with the DC Comics universe than I was with Marvel's. I mean, apart from the X-Men and Spider-man, I wasn't too familiar with now-famous characters like Hawkeye and Black Widow. Or for that matter even Iron Man. (To be honest, I knew more about Ant-Man than I did Iron Man. And Thor was mostly a joke.) 

Meanwhile, over in DC-verse resided my all-time favourite comic book hero (or anti-hero) - Batman. Even casual comic book fans know Superman, Wonder Woman, the Flash and Aquaman. 

The difference has been in the movie universe. The Marvel Cinematic Universe (MCU henceforth) was masterfully set up under the guidance of Kevin Feige from the start. Even movies that didn't work too well (notably the first two Hulk movies) were interesting. 

Enough virtual ink has been devoted to why MCU is has been successful; from choosing great scriptwriters and directors, to casting the right actors (starting with Robert Downey Jr.) and picking the right comic book arcs (most notably the Winter Soldier arc from Captain America) to bring to the cinema, Kevin Feige has made a series of right decisions. However, the decision that I think deserves the most credit is the one that allowed MCU to build a world, with rules and over-arching villains and heroes that could co-exist. Each superhero was fleshed out but still belonged to the same world as all the others. That is no mean feat. 

Meanwhile, over at DC, apart from a few good choices, all I can see is the squandering of great comic book properties. To be fair, Arrow on the CW (a TV show based on the Green Arrow comics, for the uninitiated) is great. It may even be responsible for a successful spin-off in the form of the Flash, who is a truly beloved character from the comics. And of course, it goes without saying that the Christopher Nolan's Batman movies were stellar, with the second being an absolute masterpiece (and arguably the greatest comic book movie ever made).

HOWEVER, with news emerging in the last week about DC giving Zack Snyder the keys to the kingdom, a la Joss Whedon over at MCU, I am now truly afraid for what is to come. 

Snyder directed last year's Man of Steel and is now scheduled to direct Batman vs. Superman as well as a Justice League movie to release in 2017. 

First off, Man of Steel was just awful. I mean plain terrible. The last 40 minutes of the movie is just one long rampage that was directed with all the subtlety of a drag show. Most people left the theatre with a headache. Henry Cavill, and I am sorry in advance to anyone who liked him in the movie, was an abysmal Superman. I will reserve judgement on Ben Affleck and Gal Gadot as Batman and Wonder Woman because I know nerds (like me) often have a reputation for losing their shit online over casting choices for their favourite comic book characters and then having to eat their words at a performance like Heath Ledger in as The Joker (in case you didn't know or don't remember, us nerds lost our ever-loving minds when he was cast). 

My bigger problem is with Zack Snyder. He is well-known for fetishizing women in his movies, with some feminists going so far as to claim that he outright indulges in rape fantasies in many of his films. How can he possibly be allowed to have a hand in bringing to life the greatest female superhero i.e. Wonder Woman? Compare that to Whedon who was responsible for writing one of the best, most kick-ass, feminist heroes in Buffy The Vampire Slayer. Snyder also has a very heavy hand and is not too well known for developing characters with nuance and complications. Whereas, DC has some of the most complex characters in its universe. My fear is that his Batman will just be a billionaire who beats up bad guys at night (in a highly-stylized manner, no doubt; another major criticism leveled against Snyder has been his emphasis on style over substance) instead of the broken man who saw his parents killed before him and developed a complex moral code as a result. 

His Superman has already proven to be an angsty whine-machine who did not seem to hesitate to snap his antagonist's neck. Now, this point is worth discussing. I didn't have as much of a problem as other fans when Superman killed General Zod at the end of Man of Steel. My issue was that it came in the first movie itself and that too without taking pains to establish Superman's sense of responsibility and his highly-rigid honour code. He is referred to as Boy Scout in the comics because he is adamant that he will not kill. In fact, many Justice League stories have been born from his vast divergence in morality from Batman. Snyder did not establish this moral code and instead just showed him violating it. We should have been shown what a very big deal it is that Superman had to resort to killing someone and what kind of toll that could take on him.

Finally, DC hasn't taken pains to develop a universe before jumping straight away into a Justice League movie. How are casual fans supposed to know who Cyborg is? Which version of Aquaman will they be presenting and what will his character be like? And will characters like the Green Arrow and The Flash appear in the movie even though they exist in a parallel universe on TV shows?

So, here's the thing, I am very unhappy with the choices made over at DC and had to put down all my objections. I doubt any of the people that read this blog care as deeply about this stuff as I do. Still, it's worth mentioning. I'm not one to solicit feedback on my weird rants, but in this particular case, if you read this blog, comment and let me know what comic book movies you like and why.

Adulthood

Nobody tells you about all this. Not the books, the movies or the music videos. 

You grow up with misinformation. Being an adult is glamorous. It's all cars and shopping and staying out late. It's money you don't have to account for to anybody else. It's boyfriends and late-night parties in exotic locations. Somehow, you grow up with an idea in your head that the only thing standing in the way of a super-amazing life and you is an official government document that places your age at 18 and being out from under your parents' noses. 

Here I am, more than a decade past that 18, desperately trying to prevent myself from thinking about the fact that I will inevitably hurtle into my 30s in about 6 months. And I have now been privy to all the realities of adulthood that popular culture has long lied to me about.

Adulthood means responsibility, above everything else. Getting up in the morning well before you want to so that you can take out the trash, get the milk, bring in the newspaper and let in the maid. Telling the cook what to make, buying vegetables and meat on the evening before so she will have something to make and packing your own lunch. Far from being carefree with money, you realize you now have a ton of things to plan for. Before your monthly paycheck is even in your bank account, most of the incoming money has been earmarked for dreadfully mundane things like rent, salaries (for the aforementioned maid/cook, watchmen, etc.), flight tickets and bill payments. 

Ah, the glories and joy of paying bills. Not one of those music videos with J.Lo singing about 'Love Don't Cost a Thing' spend any time reflecting on how bills are paid. The first ten days of any month is spent juggling numerous bill that flood into your mailbox. From internet to cable to the newspaper, everything needs to be paid for. Thank heavens for e-banking. 

Look, maybe I didn't enter adulthood with too many illusions. I grew up around a perpetually stressed out single parent who had to struggle to make ends meet and I watched her bend over backwards trying to figure out how to pay for things. I didn't once see her dressed up to the nines on her way to a party or taking off without a care to a beachside holiday. But the truth is, I thought these were our special circumstances. I thought when I was 'grown up', I wouldn't have kids and would be able to do all those things. And I have. I take several holidays a year, often in exotic locations. Although I don't party as much as my peers (given the teetotalling and general misanthropy) I do quite frequently find myself in an expensive dress and high heels on my way to club. 

What I did not expect was the exhaustion that responsibility brings with it. At the end of each day, I'm just tired. Not the kind of tired that comes with physical exertion (because let's face it, I haven't been to my very expensive gym in nearly two months) but the bone-weary kind that comes with constantly having to think about consequences. Because that is the biggest difference between childhood and adulthood: worrying about consequences. Worrying about consequences is in essence being responsible. If I don't wake up and take out the trash, my whole house will smell. If I don't pay my electricity bill, the power company will cut my supply. If I don't buy vegetables, tell the cook exactly how to prepare them and pack them for lunch, I will find myself ordering yet another unhealthy restaurant meal that my aging body can ill-afford. 

So, here's the thing; it's a mixed bag. Clearly, I am having a much better time than my mother did at my age, when she had two small children and no help or money to raise them. But I find that I am also surprised by the unanticipated accompaniments of adulthood. No major pronouncements on the nature of life today, I have to go online and pay my internet bill.

A Thing of Beauty

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.

-John Keats

2014

It's difficult to describe depression to those that haven't experienced it. 

It's not sadness. Not momentary. Not temporary. It doesn't dissipate with the arrival of good news, good company or good fortune. And even when you're 'cured' of it, are out of the fog, it's like stray dog on the road, hiding behind street corners and waiting to jump out at you without notice. 

It's 2014 now. This is the year I will turn 30. Before turning 30, I will have experienced 3 major depressive episodes in my life.

Each time I've been depressed, it has been a wholly different experience for me, which means that unfortunately, I don't emerge from one with a road map for future episodes. 

I don't how others deal with it. My best friend, who has also struggled with this for most of her life, is the only other person whose experience I have some insight into. The book that most clearly articulates something close to my experience is Emma Forrest's Your Voice in my Head. The big difference between Emma and myself is the fact that she is bipolar. I am not. 

As I embark upon 2014, my most ardent wish is to not be depressed any more. It's been more than a year now. Enough. Please stop.