I met Jakob. He’s a big, bad troll with endearingly prominent toes and fingernails, caught mid-lounging, casually gripping the two trees that flank him like they’ve always been his. I’ve seen him—and his brothers, or maybe his cousins—lurking in countless Explorer-meets-Adventure articles, and I always promised myself that if our paths ever wandered close enough to cross, I’d say yes to the meeting.
Most things don’t live up to the hype—or rather, my standards. Knowing this, Jakob clearly stepped up his game. I don’t know how he did it, but this larger-than-life mythical creature ushered me straight into his fairy-tale land, and I skipped in merrily, holding my best friend’s hand.
I could really use a fantasy land right about now. My eyes are dry and stinging, my mood so Scrooge-like that stealing presents from small children and making them cry sounds… tempting. Those birria tacos filled my stomach like a pumpkin, and if you’re anyone except a tiny handful of people, I’d probably give you the cold shoulder.
None of this am I proud of. Being less than who you are isn’t exactly Humanitarian of the Century material—but, sigh, it happens.
Why, why, why. The whiny question rings through my ears like bells in It’s a Wonderful Life. Only nobody is getting wings anytime soon.
Understanding why is unhelpful. What I need more than anything else is for my feelings to be okay. To be with the powerful, magnetizing pull of depression—the shutting down, the giving up, the hating it—and for it all to be as insignificant as a housefly with a hearing problem. The “What’s wrong?”—with its sprinkling of expectations and qualifications—is not for me.
Understanding can wait. Being with myself cannot.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 