Hi,
I'm the guy who posted about getting cancer and surviving an abusive relationship back in 2023/4ish. I'm sad to report that my life hasn't really improved.
Yes, I can still date and get laid, but I find myself more and more isolated in my thoughts and desires. Here's a manic e-mail I sent to one of my friends.
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Dearest (friend),
I apologize that our phone call was cut short the other day. In spite of my “new” used iPhone 13’s superior battery life, I learned the hard way that taking calls while using a camera tends to cut things a little short, and my old chargers had frayed in typical Apple fashion. Again, my apologies.
You and others have noticed that I’m a bit in the blues, down in the dumps, cliché for depressed du jour.
Usually, I have the energy to pretend that I’m just having a rough one, that I have allergies, or at least put up some clearly unbelievable front. No such luck here. I will admit that this is the worst I have felt in a long time, emotionally, and I am considering self-intervention most days.
Texting for now is a chore, even this feels laborious. My mood is as much responsible as this new phone. As I write this, I’m thinking of Nietzsche’s misadventures with the writing ball, and how a medium can alter one’s ability to communicate. Did I mention that I hate this phone? This infernal machine (“piece of shit,” for the vulgar) is simply too big in my hands. I feel it changing my thoughts, turning me into a mute, this new iPhone. I feel my ability to think slowly returning as I type this in Microsoft Word 2010.
Don’t worry, I won’t do anything stupid.
It all started when my college friend, (name), and her boyfriend came back from their vacation in Florida. I had been in their apartment cat- and rabbit-sitting and keeping the cat’s veterinary appointments with their roommate, who is an absolute sweetheart, if not a little bit odd. Early 40’s, from Iowa, fast-talker, we drank some beers and watched the Indiana game. It was a good time. Of course, my car got booted, which sucked, but that doesn’t really figure into how I was feeling. Other than another pointless fight with my parents, that didn’t really affect me so much.
(name), my friend from college, is clearly the life of that living arrangement. Most of the stuff in the apartment is hers or her family’s. The furniture, the electronics, the foods, almost all of it was purchased by (mostly for) her. Her boyfriend and their roommate seem to get together nightly and watch TV. Yes, she’s a rich girl. How else is she going to afford a life in New York? Her family’s fortunes are not what get me down; Jersey has a lot of rich kids. Her roommate being a friend is also not a concern of mine.
What got me down was seeing how she lives.
Most days and evenings before the storm were spent indoors, watching various reality TV programs or kids’ shows, playing some New York Times phone puzzles. Yes, kids’ shows. The one that all of us watched was some Pixar show, Win or Lose. It was cute. Again, there’s nothing wrong with some good family edutainment.
What is wrong, though, was getting a taste of what “adult life” seems to have devolved into. (name) and her boyfriend are currently of course dating, albeit seriously, with no immediate plans for children. (roommate) seems to want to be a bachelor forever. Again, both are fine. But as I was watching this kids’ show with them , I was overtaken by this sense of dread, that nobody wants to have an adult life.
In a past life, I had considered a pivot from economics to sociology as my discipline of research/study, in no small part thanks to the influence of the person who has, sadly, occupied the most of my adult mind. One observation that I had pinged to (ex), and one that she had started to incorporate in her work before her hard identity-politics refocus (a lens through which I, naturally, became a mortal race and sex enemy worthy of physical and existential destruction) was a reworking of the observations made by Kit Lasch and Charles Taylor with the respect of tightening microeconomic circumstances leading to smaller lives of Americans. Both had observed that individuals started to disappear into their home lives, communities and clubs had started to become extensions of a relationship, that songs became a metaphysical possession that some couples projected sentimentality upon, the boom in then-new exurbia as a physical manifestation of this retreat into the late-capitalist common-law or de facto marriage. Expanding upon this and microwaving it, my greatest fear was that during the next recession, there would be a massive social contraction. That couples and families would fully retreat into themselves, now unencumbered by the previous indignities of the physical world.
I felt this old observation punch me in the face that night.
I looked up and saw everyone on their phones. There are people in their early 30’s and early 40’s. I excuse myself, I go to the bar down the street, and I see the same. The few conversations I could strike up were interrupted by references to wives, husbands, partners, all completely voluntarily and unprompted. This time, the phone-starers and lover-anchored had a more diverse age range.
I simply do not think that a world for the single, the long-distance, or the childless can exist any longer.
My greatest fear was realized in Harlem of all places. With the advanced technology which can now soothe the collapse of individual wealth better than either the opiate of the masses or the opiate of substances could, there is simply no need for a community to exist beyond one’s immediate family. Everything we could want is right here in our living room. You don’t need to go out, it’s cold, dangerous, out there anyway.
Welcome to the Global Exurb.
I simply see my own life, one of forced isolation, abuse, loneliness, is inescapable. I am deathly afraid that every family now will be like mine: tight-knit, insular, paranoid, and God forbid you ever find your wool suddenly start to darken.
I have to wonder if it’s possible for me to have a place in this world. I’m growing increasingly pessimistic.
I understand that on some level it’s pathetic to be 31 years old and constantly “hitting up” friends. At some point, we all age out of the instant connections with those outside of our immediate microeconomic unit. It saddens me deeply that my generation and the best, most egalitarian of us couldn’t break out of the one social construct that has swallowed all of adult and American life. We lost. Oh well. That’s not my concern. I’m simply afraid that those of us who struggled with family will simply be left alone to rot with chatbots, that the others with darker wool have already turned away from each other and embraced their own digital cloisterhood. I fear that adult life, what was my only salvation from the pain I experienced in my childhood, is simply going to disappear as people turn inwards and decided that the outside world is simply too distracting, inconvenient, loud, cold, scary. I am kept awake nightly by the thought of an entire generation of children growing up in their own exurban home-jails.
I thank God every day for our friendship.
[Eastern-Camera]
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I truly miss being in a codependent relationship, I miss never having to see my family that has always disrespected me to my face and to intimate partners, I miss having a future. I see myself eating a handful of fent in a few years.