So This Is What Bottom Is Like

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I was in such a strange mood yesterday when my mom left. She’d been staying with me for a few days, and during that time I got into a car accident.

Since I’m an Uber driver, that means I won’t be able to work until I get this resolved.

And since I’m broke, that means I’m going to have trouble paying my rent next month.

Add to that the fact that there’s a problem with my insurance, as apparently I wasn’t covered under collision.

Oh, and did I mention that the other driver isn’t insured?

Right before my mom left, she told me how I reminded her of herself when she was younger. “Free spirited” is definitely putting a positive spin on it.

A more realistic look would be, “very low bank account” and “lacking motivation to find a stable office job.”

That’s me in a nutshell. Over the past few years I’ve come to accept that about myself. It’s become part of my identity.

After all, I’ve accomplished a lot in my 33 years, so I could still manage to find a way to feel good about myself despite the lack of career and ambition.

I also do yoga 4–6 times a week, which puts me in a good headspace for the rest of the day. The instructor always says things like, “You’re perfect the way you are,” and whatnot. So it has a very accepting vibe.

I’ve been in the army. I’ve had sex with a lot of women. I’ve traveled.

In short, I’ve done a lot of cool shit, way more than most people I’ve ever met in person.

Anyway, when my mom left she told me a long story about how she met my dad.

She talked about how during that time in her life, she also didn’t see the need to chain herself to a desk for 40 hours a week.

How she struggled to pay rent, preferring to travel and enjoy the simple pleasures in life like sitting out by the pool with her friends.

She told me how she met my dad, who was her boss at one of her jobs, and how they hit it off. They moved in together and got married. Eight or so years later I popped out.

The reason I bring this up is because as I was listening to her tell her story, I saw so much life in her. Ironically, it was a story about how she saw me in herself.

Yet for some reason the story had a powerful effect on me, and in the ten minutes in between the end of the story and the time she left, my mind started to unravel.

I was thinking that back then, my dad was a sales manager of 200 people. My mom was young and healthy. Now my dad is 78 years old and still working to make ends meet, while my mom is recovering from a knee replacement that kept her in bed for six months.

After she left, I started to lose my shit.

Now, I’m not the type to get emotional. I’m the most chill, most not-give-a-fuck person you’ve ever met.

I’ve been through the fucking army. I’ve eaten rejection for three meals a day for years while working in sales. My skin is very thick and it’s rare that I experience this intensity of emotion.

In fact, the only reason I chose to type up the story is because I reacted so strongly to it. I wasn’t quite sure at the time why it affected me, but I just knew that I needed to write about it before too much time passed and I forgot the details.

When I was finished, it being Sunday and all, I figured I would smoke some weed. I’d had an eventful week and assumed that getting high would help me forget about my problems while I spent the rest of the weekend playing video games.

So I rolled a joint and took a puff. I didn’t feel anything at first, but when I sat back down on the couch my heart started to beat super fast.

I started to experience anxiety, which I’m normally pretty good at ignoring, but for some reason this was different.

I realized that I had been in my house for the entire day. It was now around 3 PM, so I thought I’d go for a walk and release some of my nervous energy.

As I walked outside, I kept thinking about my mom’s story. As I replayed all of it in my head, I got more and more emotional.

There I was, walking around my quiet Brentwood neighborhood on a cloudy afternoon, while tears started to form in my eyes.

I alternated between tearing up and forcing myself to maintain control, especially when I saw other people walking down the street. With my eyes red from the weed and a few tears, they probably thought I was some junkie that had wandered into West LA.

Unfortunately, the emotions got progressively stronger and I found it difficult to compose myself. My face began to crumple and I adjusted my route to take me back to my apartment ASAP.

I remember thinking to myself, “What the fuck is happening to me?”

I didn’t know if I was having a freakout from the weed, or if the events from the past few days and their implications (i.e. having to struggle for rent) had finally started to catch up with me. I’d find out soon that it was much worse than that.

Finally, I made it into my apartment. Immediately, I collapsed onto the couch and began to cry. Not wanting my neighbors to hear me, I grabbed one of the couch pillows, buried my face in it and started to let it all go.

Strangely, I still wasn’t sure what “it” was.

And I’m not talking like one or two tears here, I’m talking straight up contorted facial muscles, flowing tears and even some snot. I guess you could call it bawling?

I bawled into the pillow, still unable to get the images of my mom and dad’s younger selves out of my mind. The contrast between where they were and where they are now made my stomach hurt.

I still had no idea why these thoughts were making me cry, as this is definitely not a regular occurrence for me. In fact, I haven’t blubbered like that in years, not since I was forced to eat shit at once of the worst sales jobs I’d ever had (story for another time).

Crying without knowing why you’re crying is an extremely weird experience.

As I lay there, I wracked my brain trying to figure out what the fuck was wrong with me. Part of me thought that it was just some seriously dank weed and that I was losing my mind.

While that certainly had something to do with it, or at least was a catalyst of some sort, new thoughts entered my mind that began to shed some light on my situation.

I realized that I felt extreme guilt at not being able to financially help my parents. That, in fact, I was the opposite: a financial burden.

Normally, this isn’t something I would care about. I’m an admittedly selfish person, especially when it comes to my parents.

Maybe it’s because I was an only child, or maybe because they were so strict when I was younger.

Whatever the case, I always felt like I had a free pass to do whatever I wanted, regardless of what they thought or how it may have affected them.

And yes, while I know that I can’t blame myself [entirely] for their life situation, I couldn’t help thinking that if I had reined myself in over the years, forgoing those adventures in exchange for focusing on income generation, that none of us would be in this situation.

Suddenly, a vastly more frightening thought came into my mind: I’ve wasted my entire life.

Looking back, the thought process went something like this:

1. I chose to travel and work in other countries instead of staying in LA and focusing on my career.
2. I am paying the price for that now in the form of a low bank account and poor job prospects.
3. I can’t take care of myself or my parents financially as a result of my decisions
4. I have wasted my life
5. Oh no, what have I done?

At first, I wasn’t sure if I was laughing or crying.

In fact, there was a bit of alternating between the two as I would briefly consider the absurdity of the situation.

I could even say I was completely overwhelmed mentally as I’m not used to so many thoughts and emotions going through me at once.

I remember sobbing to myself, “No. It couldn’t have been a mistake!”

— implying that there was value in how I’d lived my life, that all those years of adventure weren’t invalidated just because of my situation.

My protests were in vain, as I spent the next thirty minutes going back and forth between stuffing my face into the same, rapidly moistening pillow and staring into my ceiling.

Crying was exhausting.

Eventually, I didn’t want to feel bad anymore. Enough was enough.

I got up, but was immediately struck by an intense sadness yet again.

I stumbled into my room and onto my neatly made bed (thanks mom). Curled up in the fetal position, I hugged a pillow as I started to cry yet again.

This lasted only for a minute or so. Sick of these negative feelings, I flung the pillow across the room and got off the bed.

I spent the rest of the evening in an exhausted stupor.

As the high from the weed slowly started to lessen in intensity, I checked myself constantly. I wanted to make sure I didn’t just lose my shit because I was high.

And the fact was, I hadn’t. I really am broke. My insurance really is fucked. I really am 33 with no savings or job prospects.

With the combination of frequent yoga and the high opinion I had of my past achievements, I was able to repress any feelings of inadequacy regarding my current lack of material success.

Now that I can’t drive for Uber until this mess is resolved, it’s like the rug has been pulled out from under me.

I need to get a normal shitty job if I want to make enough to pay my rent next month, which goes against a lot of what I’ve been saying recently about how I want to live my life.

I’m going to have to swallow my pride and work somewhere, probably something shitty in retail. And not the fun kind of retail like selling hair straighteners. I’m talking about folding shirts at Forever 21 for 8 hours a day.

Another interesting result of yesterday’s breakdown was an unexpected motivation to make a lot of money.

While I was still high, I remember thinking that NOW would be a perfect time to finally get my real estate license. After all, I only had one more test to take before I was able to sign up for the official CA exam.

I also have my friend at Equinox who asks me once a week when I plan on getting my license so he can hook me up with a job. This guy makes a million dollars a year, after taxes.

If we put aside the fact that this decision would also go against what I’ve been saying I want for myself, the desire to stay in LA and make money was strong yesterday.

I wanted to “be successful” so I could help out my parents.

It was so weird, now that I think about it. It was almost like I had regressed back into my younger self. Back before I was a teenager and had that childlike appreciation for my parents. Back when they were my friends, and I wouldn’t hesitate to sit on their lap or go to them for a hug when I needed comfort.

In the midst of my crying, I felt a powerful sadness that those days were gone.

I felt shame at how hard I’d worked to distance myself from them over the years. I know they still see me like a kid. They probably wish I was more open with them.

I was so emotionally distant from them for so long, that I forgot what it was like to be close to them.

During my travels over the years, people would often ask me if I had brothers or sisters. When they found out I was an only child, they’d invariably ask, “What about your parents?”

My callous answer would be something to the effect of, “They know better than to try and make suggestions as to what I should be doing with my life.”

What they really meant was, “Don’t you feel bad that they’ll miss you? Don’t you miss them?”

I knew this but tried to play it cool.

Was I burying some kind of pain or just angry? I don’t know.

But what I do know is that yesterday all those barriers came down. I was a little kid again who was hurt and wanted his mommy and daddy to comfort him.

Then I had the terrible realization that someday they were going to die. After that, they’d never be there for me.

As these thoughts ran through my head, it was almost like they had already died and I was grieving for them.

I must have been quite a sight: stumbling around my kitchen with tears rolling down my face, blubbering about how I’d failed my parents.

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!”

The crazy part is that I actually meant it.

I still have no idea what the fuck I’m going to do. I’m still broke, my insurance is still fucked, and I still can’t decide if I want to stay in LA and try to get rich or if I am going to bounce in February to begin my wandering adventures yet again.

And you know what the worst part is? It’s not my financial situation. It’s the fact that I feel like a burden to my parents. I’m 33 fucking years old, you know?

It’s not like I’ve never made money before, or have been living in their basement my whole life.

I’ve been out in the world. I’ve done things.

I just… wanted to try and make it work in LA. I wanted to find something that I could do here that didn’t make me want to kill myself from boredom.

Something that I could do without feeling like I was sacrificing my freedom.

Anyway.. this pity party has gone on long enough. Time to look for a job.