Despair is a a sneaky bitch. It doesn't kick down the door like the Kool-Aid Man. "Oooooohhhhh Yeaaaahhhhh." It's more like getting fat. A few more doughnuts here and there. Skipping the gym. Handful of beers over the weekend. Add it up, and suddenly we’re walking briskly past the mirror. It's not supernatural; just imperceptibly slow. It's death by a thousand Andes mints. It whittles down the frame. Shaving away the healthy. Until your jeans become a straitjacket and your belt a noose.
Despair is like that, but for your soul. For the casual observer, some versions of despair are hard to spot. There are snow leopards of ennui among us, tucked neatly into the landscape. I drew the highly productive variant from the sorting hat (someone double check me on this reference, as I have never read Harry Potter, so it’s a real shot in the dark). I’ve got the hyper focus, touch of the ‘tism, whoops-I-forgot-to-eat-because-I-was-working-on-this-project-for-six-straight-hours variety. A modern classic with the unexpected consequence of making me exceptional at abusing work-life balance.
Some might mistake this for corporate ambition devolving into workaholism, but it’s uglier and sadder than that. When the emotional Gold Star economy hits a recession, it begs the question, “How many emails sent outside of business hours will it take for boss to tell you they love you?” I can tell you so far that it’s not 748. Here’s hoping it’s under a 1,000.
At some point your wires get crossed and you end up chasing the dragon of little successes and building your entire personality out of teeny tiny bricks. Building a home out of Legos is not for the faint of heart. In the absence of family, cats, and geographical proximity to friends, we crank the dopamine slot machine anywhere we can find it. In my off time, I get minimally high off of compulsively chasing pinball high scores. I feel nothing when I achieve them except relief; haunted by dim dream of the finger of God bursting through the dingy bar, bathing me in warm light, and declaring like Thor’s hammer, “You are worthy.”
“Worthy of what?!” Great question, Dear Reader. To be fair, I’ve not really gotten that far. Mostly just been collecting Gold Stars. I’m a completionist. Each one is a little trophy I unceremoniously toss in a cardboard box like trying to fill a bucket one grain of sand at a time. Unflinching focus and debilitating dedication for a paltry high that has been cut with so many additives you might as well be rubbing Sour Patch Kids dust on your gums. The fleeting cumshot of achievement gone before the match screen disappears. Your name immortalized in sandcastles. So I press start on the next game hoping it will be different this time.
My Dad used to play a lot of Tetris. He quit his job for a few months when I was a kid and so I remember he used to play a couple games while putting me to bed. We’d do the whole bedtime routine, and he’d turn down the TV real low while I fell asleep. The Type II music hits me like an Ambien. He was incredible at it. And goddamn relentless. He would accept nothing other than a perfect four line Tetris. The sound effect is burned in my brain like a Pavlovian exclamation point of success. He’d risk it all waiting for that goddamn long piece, feverishly manicuring the top layers to ensure he could always cash out for maximum value. His scores put everything in Nintendo Power to shame. It was really something to witness.
Tetris success is, like all things, is a dick measuring contest. After a successful Tetris game, you get a little rocket ship on the end screen. The size of the rocket ship is commensurate with your score. Bigger score, bigger dick. Bigger ship. If you really fucking lay it down, you get a little UFO and the castle takes off as a cute subversion of expectations. My Dad was so good he regularly got the UFO, but it never took off. It just sits there. This used to drive my Dad crazy. He was sure that if he got a high enough score, the UFO would take off. He killed himself trying to make that little fucker take flight (I am my father’s son). He spent a substantial part of my childhood trying to will that insubordinate bastard into the sky.
He never did. I looked it up when I was in college. The spaceship never takes off. No matter how high your score is. You can bang your head against the brick wall of the abyss to infinity and beyond, but, like a cosmic Don Draper, it’s utterly indifferent to your existence. Instructions not included.
I wish I could have told him earlier.
Might have done some good.
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