I’ve written about this elsewhere (for instance, in the chapter called Spoiled) but I’ll say it again: I do not understand why anyone would be jealous of anything I have, or anything that I’ve accomplished. Mostly because I do not understand or experience the emotion. I’ve been driven half wild by other sorts of feelings, like rage, but never by any variation of envy.
Perhaps my lack of emotive thought on the subject has something to do with the extreme isolation that chronic illness creates. Here inside the experience of living with a rare genetic disorder and two different kinds of cancer, it would be hard to survive if I allowed myself to compare my life with another.
I’ve been sick since birth, and I expect to die young. These are facts I live with, and yes — it is sort of depressing. But mortality is a fundamental part of life; we all have to die. There isn’t much point dwelling on the issue.
This topic is on my mind at the moment because I’m aware that the rest of my journal this month is rather insufferable. It would appear that I’ve had a fantastic time, and that is in fact true. I always have the best toys, the grandest adventures, the most fun available. On purpose.
The working class and political part of my brain struggles with abundance. I maintain an often violent internal debate in which I am thankful for my own economic stability and angry that others do not have the basic things they need. I’ve only been middle-class by income definition for about three years, and while I appreciate the security I’m not so sure about the rest of it.
When I meet people who tell me that they are jealous of my life, I am surprised and run through a mental tally of what they might like to have: the history of profound life-threatening illness? Not fun.
The excessively messy and reckless personal life? I can’t even write the full truth until a few more people die.
The eccentric, maddening family? It isn’t easy living with geniuses; they tend to be an awful lot of trouble.
The expat thing? I don’t live in a friendly place, and I truly miss my home.
The only thing left is the whole middle-class thing, and you know, I don’t believe it will last – nor do I approve of middle-class, middle-brow activities and entertainments.
People who are wiser than yours truly inform me that nobody will ever believe that my life has been difficult, because I never complain. This information is interesting but not useful.
I find lamentations boring; life can be frustrating, lonely, sad, and sometimes gruesome. I’ve lived through more than my fair share of trouble and it is perfectly reasonable that I should want to have a good time. That starts with recognizing and documenting the good things.