The thing about wanting is it’s hard to stop at just a little. It’s like potato chips, like those really good salt and vinegar ones in the blue, oily bag: kettle-cooked and folded over and engineered to be as addictive as possible. You know it’s not good for you — the CDC warns that 48.1% of U.S. adults have high blood pressure; the Buddhists never let you forget that desire is the root of all suffering — but you can’t help it. You have one and then you have twelve and then the whole bag is gone and you are just want, want, want, guilt, want, shame.
John likes to say that he’s post-fear — after over a decade of living at the edge of his capacity, he’s decided that worry can no longer be a driving force behind his actions. I used to maintain that I must also be post-fear, because I’m not scared of micromorts or public speaking or walking home at night. This was a grave misunderstanding. It turns out that I am actually pre-fear.
For me, the thought of losing out is so terrifying and anguishing that it’s best to arrange circumstances such that there’s no potential for things to veer off course. I achieve this by refusing to let myself want, because if I don’t want anything, or need anything, or deserve anything, then I can never be disappointed or caught off guard or anything other than super, super grateful to have anything at all.
This strategy worked really well. Until I considered whether I might enjoy snacking on a few chips.
For years now, supposedly emotionally sound people have counseled me to “get in touch with my desires.” After all, how can I communicate my wants to others if I have no idea what they are? Good point, I thought. How wise! I will respect the majority opinion among mental health professionals and give that a go!
Nobody prepared me for what happens when what I want is not possible. Holy fuck! I scream, writhing in agony as every neuron in my brain reaches the same impasse at once. This fucking sucks! I shriek, then begin using my head as a hammer. I wish I never wanted anything in the first place! I double over and emit terrible, animal sounds in an attempt to dispel even a portion of my discomfort, which feels like it’s calcifying in my lungs and choking me from the inside out. How the fuck is this better?!
I’ve since been informed that this feeling is known as “grief” — the response to the loss of something important — and that just like “sadness” and “anger,” it is perfectly normal and even healthy. This comes as horrible news for a person like me, who has only recently admitted to being capable of experiencing negative emotions. Now I am just a limp spaghetti noodle waiting to be ground to meal underfoot, or else the spectral afterimage left behind by my usual goings-on, or else that piece of junk that sends a pang of sadness through your chest each time you spot it at the back of your closet, but that you hold on to nonetheless in the hope that it will one day prove useful.
I am sorry for wanting unreasonable, egregious, burdensome things. I am sorry for being so covetous and needy and demanding. I also preferred when I was content with all of it. I think I get so scared because I’m greedy — I want to hold onto everything, the world wants to take it away. What the fuck.
This is just to say: I have eaten the chips that were in the cabinet, and which you were probably saving for later. Forgive me, they were delicious. So enticing, and so crisp.