(No. 9) Compare and despair
(No. 9) Compare and despair
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I’m on the cusp of a change. Somewhat past the socially acceptable time to have career ambiguity, I’m clouded by indecision and regret. My trajectory up to now feels like a derailed train, streaming along for a lineup of onlookers, craning for a good view. In reality, the audience members are paper cutouts; a fake white horse placed out as bait (Nope, 2022).
It was a turning point when I finally saw that no one was looking at me. Sometime after college, I realized I could be less poised and nervous, perfectly sculpted with curated interests and experiences. The energy of judging is mostly spent judging ourselves. Try to remember an embarrassing moment from middle school. For me, the ones that come to mind are all my own. It’s a liberating ratio.
And no one is looking at me now. Everyone has their own lives with their own careers and mortgages and fears. Why am I viciously labeling this time a quarter-life crisis when I tout as gentle and open? I’ve spent years in remote locations at alternative careers, as a farmhand, a greenhouse manager, a ranch camp cook, but I feel more scared now than I did then. Failure can’t happen in a vacuum, it requires onlookers. Maybe it’s other people who are spawning my spiral, but I suspect it’s the other people who watch just for me, created just by me.
I imagine I’m 12. I wish and hope for privacy, for rest and alone time. I dream of sleeping over at my friend Catherine’s house and walking to school with her the next morning. My childhood was extremely comfortable and my hopes reflect that, but necessity unattended my needs for space and silence and unmanicured outdoor spaces.
I imagine I’m 12 to remind myself that I once dreamed of a little nest with a little cat. I dreamed of traveling and wearing interesting things, of being licentious, an activist. This comparison brings me comfort and I hug it. I’m not 12.
We purr “goooood dog” at the quiet dogs, the ones who watch slowly as neighbors pass their kingdoms. When dogs sound an alarm at 3 am, I remind myself that it’s their voice—they wish to track and sniff and chew and signal. Being a good dog doesn’t mean they’re good at being a dog, it means they’re good at being our dog. Goodness competes with nature and they adapt wisely.
I’m a quiet and restful person—traits I feel neutral about. I strive to be more charming and passionate, ambitious and verbose. I see success in my peers and I replicate but can’t transform. Only a cornerstone of confidence, no doubt fueled by white privilege, has borne me through my professional years. My nature forfeits goodness; I become an ironically loud dog.
Successful peers are all graduating with secondary degrees. They’re all buying houses and they’re all vacationing in Sicily. They sowed the seeds many years ago and now they prepare dinner with their ambition. I think our brains are stunned at the 21st-century access to so many different peer comparisons. I’ve been pan fried by this real-time tracking. A sad reunion weekend or phoned-in news from a parents’ block party would’ve been better.
“All of my peers are successful” is a lie, the same as “I am not successful.” That lie twists in me like a snake, docile but threatening.
I’m happy for them or jealous of them or have imaginary exchanges of unexpected kindred, but it’s never neutral. My projections are always charged, especially with peers from schooling. In classes, we had something to prove and something to say. A pecking order with a demand for participation. Finally, I want to say something back, but I feel too unfinished and unreleased like a student.
Exposure to parasocial peers fries tenfold, especially high-exposure peers. I think about a time before digital networking, tabloids, and even before the internet at large. Hearing only of celebrities with extreme class disparity or mysticism; savoring juicy royal family drama and memorizing folk ballads. Easier to reconcile the present reality with no alternatives, only impossibilities without guilt or implied moral ties. In actuality, hopelessness probably outweighed whatever peace was gained—you didn’t fail but you also weren’t allowed to try.
I wonder if rocket celebrities try to compare to their 12-year-old selves and despair, not because of failure, but because they can’t recognize the trajectory of their success. It’s a changing road trodden by royal carriages made of digital pumpkins. I can only guess that comparison to childhood would feel good, but more likely is comparison to their royal peers, always up.
As a young adult, it’s essential to visualize the future while you’re still in the past (see above). I’m not a young adult. I’m tardy for my example paths or they don’t make sense or I’m forgetting myself. I’m waiting for my rocket or a climate catastrophe or my personality to completely change.
There is no comparison without a reference point. A simplified adaptation of Brené Brown’s envy vs. jealousy is:
Envy = wanting something that someone else has
Jealousy = fearful of losing something or status relationally
So that would be “I want Jesse’s cool pants—I’m envious” versus “I want Jesse’s cool pants so he’s not cooler than me—I’m jealous.” A step further, “I want Jesse’s cool pants because if he’s cool, then I’m not—I’m super jealous.” Fearful jealously threatens relationships, even the relationship you have with yourself.
The two oscillate, but a priority of Brown’s work is correct emotional language. So I cautiously label myself envious of career announcements on LinkedIn. Congratulations on starting your new job! You’ve taken that potential position away from me. They haven’t, I’m not qualified. I’m not qualified to look on others with jealousy.
What if it works? What if I try to be just like someone else and I succeed? Using green feelings as a compass can only work when true North is set with forgiveness. A certain amount of me is immovable; I use my envy to direct, but I can’t act without synthesizing for myself.
I chant for relief. I won’t be a traveling salesperson, but I could travel for work. I won’t be a fashion model, I’ll enjoy the culture as a participant. I’m not ready to be a parent, all that love can channel to my friends and family.
From what I can tell, the phrase imitation is the sincerest form of flattery is a social tool. It helps calm us after we’ve been copied, erased by someone who’s taken our form. Every time I’ve copied mannerisms or clothing, I’ve felt maddened too. I’m not the first—the only. I wasn’t born preset. My roommate in Jackson Hole had a beautiful candy apple red coat. I was stunted in asking if we could match and felt nauseous every time I saw the clone hanging in my closet, unworn.
We’re averse to assimilating, however much of that is American, I don’t know. It doesn’t matter, we’re one anyways. There's so much despair in being both too much the same and too much different. Personally, I’m a little erratic these days swerving to miss reference points of comparison.
I want to be a furniture maker, garment designer, UX designer, a sheep herder, a hermit. I want to travel the world, take photos and be in photos, but also tenderly develop a hobby for bird watching.
Failure can’t happen without an audience. It needs a reflection to bounce back unmet goals and expectations. I create failure when I turn outward—when I use my peers as guidelines and my stomach churns with envy, jealousy, or both. I can be in my own life.
Comparison can’t happen without a reference. I was the happiest in my most lonesome duties out west absoluting doo-dahing around. Whatever the reference point is, it’s not in other people. I can be in my own life.
But now I must bark.
[Fin]
