Editor’s Note: Is anything ailing, torturing, or nagging at you? Are you beset by existential worries? Every Tuesday, James Parker tackles readers’ questions. Tell him about your lifelong or in-the-moment problems at [email protected].
Don’t want to miss a single column? Sign up to get “Dear James” in your inbox.
Dear James,
I’m 19, and as childish as it sounds, I’ve fallen deeply for someone who will never love me back.
He’s my co-worker. We both belong to a small group working in theoretical math, and we see each other almost every week for meetings. He’s several years older than me, and I guess when I look at him, I see a guy who’s incredibly smart and seems to have his life figured out. Every time he explains a problem, I find myself getting lost, just watching his face.
I know he won’t ever look at me the same way as I look at him. But I try to make myself smarter, funnier, prettier, more interesting. I laugh at his dumb jokes (even when I consciously tell myself not to). I remember the smallest details he shares. And every time I stop myself from texting him something funny, sending him a cat picture, or asking him to hang out, I hate myself just a little more for not simply telling him the truth: “I really like you.”
Somehow, I’ve convinced myself that if I just get thinner, or smarter, or somehow better, I’ll finally have permission to feel this way—maybe even to tell him. What do I do? How am I supposed to feel?
Dear Reader,
As I say to my son when I’m trying to give him advice: “I’m not cleverer than you; I’ve just been around longer—which means that sometimes I know what happens next.”
What you’re going through is extremely painful and not childish at all.
People have been going through it forever, of course. In Ted Hughes’s retelling of Ovid’s Metamorphoses, the nymph Echo has an almighty crush on Narcissus, and “like a cat in winter at a fire / She could not edge close enough / To what singed her, and would burn her.” Sound familiar?
So this is an age-old human difficulty. But no question that it’s worse today, more acute, more invasive of our imaginations, because of [Sound of middle-aged columnist clambering breathlessly onto hobbyhorse.] our goddamn phones. The bastardized telepathy of texting, the endless pseudo-proximity of everybody to everybody else—any kind of preoccupation or passionate interest gets horribly magnified and distorted.
You’re in a difficult spot, is what I’m saying. I can guarantee you two things.
One: This person, as good as he might be at math, and as gazeable-upon as his face no doubt is, does not have his life figured out, because nobody does. He’s precisely as messed up / un–messed up as you are.
Two: You do not need to be thinner, smarter, or better. I don’t mean to be glib about the effects of generations of patriarchal damage and the ongoing psychic catastrophe of consumerism, but—you’ve got to get that stuff out of your head. It’s poison. It’s also quite wrong. You yourself, right now, just as you are, are enough and more than enough.
Am I being helpful at all? Probably not. That’s the worst thing about this condition: It’s pretty much immune to counsel, immune to rationality, immune to quotations from Ted Hughes. You just have to hang in there until it wears off. As a practical matter, please make sure you’re taking care of yourself in other areas of your life—seeing friends, getting around, having fun, playing the banjo, riding buses, talking to dogs. Don’t stay up too late. Get the protein in. Avoid the company of mopers or blowhards. Eventually, eventually, all of this will guide you back to feeling all right.
Sending you profound stamina vibes,
James
Dear James,
I work for a small-business lending company, in the credit department, reviewing and moving files as quickly as possible. We get pressure from above to move faster and from below from our customers. I have been a team lead for a year, yet every day, I feel like an impostor—because I do not have a background in accounting or lending. I also get really anxious if things start to fall apart, which they do often. (We just completely changed our workflow, and the growing pains are mounting up.) I try to do my best, but mostly I watch the clock, waiting for eight hours to pass as soon as possible.
I have at least one moment each day when all I want to do is quit. I have another job bartending, so I can do that for a while, and I have savings to get through six months. But I stay because I need the health insurance. (I started therapy again because of my job, and I’m seeing an ophthalmologist tomorrow.)
I get scared to quit because of the economy, but I’m exhausted. It takes all my energy to maintain a professional demeanor. I stare at my phone, go to bed, wake up, repeat. I know everything is temporary, but I really think this is going to ruin me. Any thoughts?
Dear Reader,
Quit! Screw this job! Life is for living!
Feel better? I do.
Seriously, though: Quit. Screw this job. Life is for living. You are in a spiral here, and you need to pull out of it. “Maintaining a professional demeanor” can blow your mind more thoroughly than the most violent psychedelic.
There remains the small matter of the future. Even my dog can tell that I have zero expertise in financial planning—but it doesn’t sound like you’re being irresponsible; you’ve got money saved, and you’ve got your bartending gig. What happens next is what happens next, but one thing’s for sure: In two weeks, you will feel so much better.
Byronically, on a mountaintop,
James
By submitting a letter, you are agreeing to let The Atlantic use it in part or in full, and we may edit it for length and/or clarity.
