Grimace

2 weekends ago, RJ and I went to a wedding & spent the weekend away. I had dreaded it and looked forward to it. When we came back, I suffered from "bone-crushing" depression, as JD used to call it.

In the almost 7 years since RJ and I had been together, I hadn't experienced depression this bad. Unshakable, thick - rendered me lost in despair and compelled me to question my existence. Thoughts of suicide returned. I was weepy for no reason. I had been struggling with a cold. Lethargic and devoid of joy, I wanted to call in sick. Forever.

The first two days after our return home, I couldn't even articulate any thoughts. RJ would ask me, "Are you okay?" I would shake my head. We would hug. I couldn't explain if I wanted to. Late at night, RJ would ask, "What is it?" I said, "So many things."

The overwhelming sadness and the conviction that the sadness was uncalled for and therefore did not matter - tormented me.

It had been a beautiful wedding - the town was beautiful, and we were surrounded by beautiful, friendly, kind people. I cherish times like this, simple, sweet moments with pseudo family, as moments with real family are few and far between, and riddled with anxiety.

Despite everything, I love weddings. Even at my most jaded, seeing two people in love and surrounded by their supportive families, now joined as one, always filled me with hope and faith in the human race in general. This particular weekend was intensified as these are people that RJ cares about, his blood (and extended blood). Even when family can be complicated, love knows no bounds.

The trigger might have been Quimby, RJ's stepdaughter, of whom he is very fond. They have a special relationship unconstrained by typical parental authoritative dynamics. She was about 7 when RJ became a fixture in her life. RJ reminesces, in amazement, how weightless and fast she was as a gymnast at that age. As Amelia gleefully recalls, at age 10 Quimby would piggyback-ride on RJ. They just have this closeness. He watched her blossom into a attractive, highly successful woman. Even though they don't see each other often, whenever they do get together, they never skip a beat.

Several years ago, Quimby moved to the Big City from another where she'd had a penthouse loft and a promising career. She works hard and parties hard and is not afraid of change. Name a major cultural (cool) event and she's been there. Name a daredevil, death-defying activity and she's done it. She's a connoisseur of sorts, has great taste in food, wine, clothes and men.

She has a bucket list and she enjoys adding to it as she crosses things off on the regular. She's a go-getter, a doer, and mover and a shaker. She's the kind of person whose dating profile I'd read and be like, Seeesh, What CAN'T you do? Gimme a break!

But Quimby and I get along. For the most part. I feel that I bore her, though. She's just too refined.

Over time, resentment grew. It started small. I recognized it right away. I shared my sentiments with RJ and acknowledged how irrational I was being: I was jealous. Plain and simple.

And yet I haven't been able to outgrow the resentment. I see her updates on Facebook and she's literally The Most Interesting Woman in the World.

Why would I even compare myself to this unattainable ideal of a woman? I'm not that person. I am not driven. I struggle to be social. I don't make friends easily. I'm no Quimby and never will be. All my traits I have known for years. Why let them bother me now?

I was here first, I thought. I was supposed to conquer the city, do all the fun things. And Quimby just swooped in and I'm nobody.

You know what Eleanor Roosefelt has been quoted to have said, "Nobody can make you feel inferior without your consent." So really it is just my pesky insecurity that never left.

I had a few years of super confidence, when I was rail-thin. Since thin is often equated with beautiful in our society, I rode that wave. I was fearless. But it was all a delusion. Confidence should not ride on looks. It should ride on substance.

So back to that age-old quandary of not feeling intrinsic worth.

The night of the wedding, as guests danced the night away, I found myself aching to join in. I had missed dancing so much. A few glasses of wine down, I mustered up courage to approach the floor.

By now Quimby had become BFF's with the groom's right-hand woman as well as the two bridesmaids. Of course she had. I had watched from a distance like a hopeless stalker, wishing I could be like them, dancing like no one was watching, having a grand time, 'cause the night was young, and they were young, and all was beautiful.

Later I would learn that Quimby had Spotified the playlist that night, tapping into her DJ persona. She had masterminded the entire musical backdrop! Of course she had.

I stared at her blond curls, red lips, 5-inch heels and what looked like a 22-inch waist.

Long story short, I didn't dance. I retreated like a cowardly soldier abandoning a post.

What was I thinking? I was never a cool girl. I never fit in.

Recollections of my teenage years surfaced: I always feel the loneliest in a crowd. Introverted and awkward by nature, I didn't yearn to hang out at gatherings. Best size groups were a party of 4, myself included, or fewer. Preferably fewer.

Years later RJ and I would come to the realization that we were both introverts by definition. We'd always had an easy relationship and accepted each other as we were. We hadn't grasped how similar to the core we were. I am not sure even Amelia, brilliant and disturbingly observant as she is, has noticed.

One night over the wedding weekend, Amelia and I had an uncomfortable (for me) conversation circling back to RJ's infidelity when they were married.

"He was always searching for something different," she offered, still appearing perplexed.

I wasn't sure about "different". She pondered and semi-concurred. "Something," she reiterated.

Pretty sure he was still looking for himself. Like me, he had been lost. Now we are lost together.

After two doses of St. John's Wort (the stuff really works for me and RJ), I was able to start talking about what I referred to as my "post-holiday blues". That's easier to deal with than a brutal midlife crisis when doubting oneself is nothing new.

"Do you think you feel intimidated by people like Quimby and Amelia because they're successful and they've made so much of their lives?" Asked RJ.

My eyebrows furrowed and I thought hard. "Sure," I replied. "That's part of it." This didn't help.

It's occurred to me that at various stages of my life, I needed to create archenemies in order to feel alive. And by alive I mean sad and/or angry:
1. JY, my baby cousin who drew all the adults' attention from the rest of us.
2. Cool girls in high school.
3. Cool girls in college.
4. Cool girls at work.
5. Exes of exes who I imagine must be SO much cooler and funner than me.

I see a pattern here.

Wanting to be included and liked and the aversion I feel toward people is a killer combo. I've set up my own purgatory.

Most introverts work so hard to pass as, well, not. Because it is such a stigma. It is a congenital combination of personality traits. You can't fight it any more than you can eye color. Well, you can fight, but you can't change your configuration. You can fool them, though.

I have fooled the best of them. It gets exhausting. Sometimes I am filled with hatred for the pain that I feel. Toward people, toward myself, toward life. And I hate that I have these thoughts. The self-loathing continues.

There are good days when I don't think in extreme, negative terms. But I am never healed.

This afternoon, as I dove into writing as way of catharsis, I told RJ, "I'm exorcising demons." He nodded knowingly. Truth is: I can't exorcise my demons.

Recently, a friend of Amelia's (another cool kid in my book) posted grateful thoughts on therapy on Facebook. RJ called the post "effusive".

In a nutshell, the friend expressed that he would have saved so much money and have had some totally different, magnificent experiences, if he hadn't stuck with therapy for 25 years. (25 years! Did he really say that?) Yet he doesn't wish different. He is glad for the journey and for the person that he is today.

Sounds like such a cliché but it was very moving. And it touched a sore spot.

Perhaps I should have stuck with therapy. But what do I know.

Earlier, I came across an article in the New York Times by Lily Brooks-Dalton touching on love and loss, and going through rough patches. In the end, she wrote, "This isn’t the happy part of the story, but that’s O.K. This story isn’t finished."

It was utterly refreshing and it made me, dare I say, giddy inside. That is the bright side, isn't it.

I often joke that at least there's death to look forward to. Sounds morbid, but if it helps grappling with the day-to-day, why not? To each his/her own.