Nothing

A new performance always starts with hope.

Not the naïve kind…more like a quiet, aching belief that maybe this time, I can hold it together. That if I give enough of my effort, energy, and attention, something solid will finally form around me. Something real. So I say yes. To jobs. To invitations. To marriages. Yes. Yes. Yes. To any expectation that hangs in the air unspoken. I say YES to being useful. YES to being tireless. YES to being wanted.

Everything about ME makes people uncomfortable, but at the age of eight, I find out hard work is always applauded. And that’s something I can do. That’s my first in. Never fewer than 2-3 jobs at a time. My. Whole. Life.

At work, I become a machine. Relentless. Competent. First to arrive, last to leave. I never say no, because no one ever says no to me. I make myself indispensable. I perform stability, drive, charisma. And people love me for it. My performance is a flawless reflection of their expectations…changing in real time as they’re perceived.

Everything about ME makes people uncomfortable, but at the age of sixteen, I find out my face is attractive. And that’s something I can use. That’s my second in. Never without a partner. My. Whole. Life.

In relationships, I become another mirror. Attentive. Affectionate. Charming. Safe. I show up like the ideal partner, because part of me genuinely wants to be that person—for her, for myself. I make promises I don’t realize are promises: I’ll always be this available, this engaged, this put-together. It works. I’m praised, admired. I feel chosen.

But the gap always shows up.

At first it’s a small delay or a quiet sense of dread. Tasks that seemed easy feel heavy now. Conversations drain me. My moods swing. I can’t keep up the pace I set…not at work, not at home. But I don’t know how to say that. I don’t know how to say that I’m breaking. I don’t even know that’s what’s happening. I just feel tired. Agitated. Trapped. Off.

Then comes shame. The unwelcome knowledge that I’m slipping. I can’t be the person they count on. I can’t.

C-A-N-N-O-T. Not as in “choose not to,” but NOT ABLE TO.

I know I’m about to let everyone down again. The thing is, I want to keep the promises. I’m just not built for the way I made them. But by the time I admit that to myself, I’m already failing. Already withdrawing.

So I disappear…emotionally first, then physically. At work, I start missing details. Resenting the schedule. Loathing my own reputation. At home, I get quiet. Stop initiating. Smiling less. Sleeping more. I avoid questions. Avoid eye contact. Avoid being known.

And they notice. They always notice. My boss. My partner. My friends. They can’t understand why I “changed.” Why the star employee lost his spark. Why the attentive husband grew cold. I can’t explain it either…not in a way that doesn’t sound like excuse. I hate what I’m becoming, but I can’t go back. The mask is too heavy. And I don’t know who was underneath it anymore.

So I end things. Or they do. Or the universe does.
Then comes the silence.

And then, eventually, comes another chance. Another invitation. Another flicker of hope.
And I think: Maybe this time.

Over and over and over and over and over and over.

I know the environment I need now. That I need. Now! After nearly five decades. But I can’t build it. I can’t go to it. I have insight in one hand and a lifetime of relational debt in the other.

I go back to pretending.

Or I collapse.

Or I live in this unsustainable torture of the in-between.

Is nothing real? Where am I? What have I done? What do I do? Is it me? Where am I?