Superpowers

There is a 12-year-old girl that I got to know over the summer who often asks me, "How are you, Nick? Are you enjoying life?"

She asks with a suspicion that I am indeed not enjoying life. I say yes in a pitch that is too high. She asks me repeatedly because she does not believe that answer. She wants me to be honest and she keeps giving me the chances to do so.

She asks, "Nick, if you could describe your life with one adjective, what adjective would you use? You can't use 'ineffable'--that's my word--it means too great to be described by words."

I never know what to say. Am I enjoying life? Probably not nearly as much as I should be. An adjective? Um, jeez. I am not sure.

Since I never have an answer, she asks another tennis instructor what he thinks my adjective is. He is a big Long Island man, Italian, mostly bald but with facial hair that refuses to be inhibited. He looks at me for a second and thinks.
"I would say subdued," he says gently.

Well then. I would not have guessed that.

An old friend called me the other day and at the end of the short conversation said, "Nick, you're going to be okay. Try to be happier," unprompted.
I had not hinted that I was upset or mentioned anything that might lead him to believe that I was upset. I asked him if he thought that I was a sad person.
"Yeah, I think you are."

That threw me off because I always thought of myself as a happy person. If you were to ask my family members, I'm the biggest goofball any of them know. In college, the opportunity to start anew paired with the correct doses of alcohol made sure I was a party-goer, the life of the party, never afraid to have fun.

I have battled with depression on occasion, probably as early as middle school.
Sometimes it's bad.
But it was never anything I talked to my family about. I never considered that I might be depressed. I thought depression meant you had to be lying on the floor, basically unable to care for yourself in any capacity, you were so miserable and sad.

And that is just the thing. I do not consider myself sad. I am happy.

I am just trapped in a pit that is only just above my head. The walls are angled outward and I can climb up the incline, often pulling my torso out, but there's this sludge lining the walls that sends me slowly sliding back down each time I do. I love to smile. I love to joke and hang out and make new friends.

It makes me sad and angry that I am in this pit. It makes me sad and angry that this state-of-mind influences relationships that I care about. I want to be better. I want to be myself--the self with which I identify. I know that funny, laughing, trusting identity better than the "sad" and "subdued" one. Others apparently know the latter. I wish others knew the former the way I do.

Around the time my depression started, I had already been deeply immersed in the world of comic books for years. I was a superhero purist. I did not understand why other genres of comic book existed (I feel differently about this now, and love graphic novels as a storytelling medium).

Since a tyke, I would daydream about the day I would gain my own special superpowers and become a vigilante capable of saving the world. What an occupation that would be. I knew in the back of my mind that it would never happen--that I would never levitate about the town, lift trucks, and make bullets melt in the air, but I still hoped for the fateful gift to be bestowed upon me.

And this fantasy went on until I was maybe 14 (old!). I would emerge, reborn, the perfect creature I was capable of being, sculpted of marble, and fighting for the good of others. My alter ego would be better than Nicholas Jay. It would be formless, nameless, capable of anything, perfect.

Quite an expectation from a boy who would sweat or cry if he ever felt pressured to form words with his mouth in a public place. The comparison of reality made me feel pathetic.

I remember reading a book called Winning State: Tennis. One of the cornerstone phrases of the book was "Dream Big-- It's your Power!"

Even entering college, I remember, I wanted to be incredible. I dreamed of perfecting my body and mind. I wanted to reach the limit of human potential. I would go to early morning workouts and try and do thorough readings of all of my assignments and, quite frankly, I failed miserably. I would fall asleep in the middle of the day, in class and sometimes in the middle of my room, on the carpet instead of my bed. I did not speak in class. I did not get good grades. I gained twenty pounds, largely of muscle, but was still weak by most standards.

Idolatry.

Throughout life, I have often put on a mask in an attempt to keep others from knowing Nicholas Jay. I wanted to be the perfect caped crusader that it was impossible to be without the assistance of a non-existent radioactive arachnid or some higher power. I wanted to be something really special, something to write home about. I wanted to be something I wasn't.

And today, in a train of thought worth celebrating, I'm realizing that maybe I am wasting the laughter Nicholas Jay wants to share with this world. All for a shallow desire to be special that is rooted in a self-conscious, self-doubting insecurity. Reality will always look meek when you have no faith in your own identity. Reality will always feel like a sludge-ridden pit when you are not a superhero. I am not saying depression is completely within my control, but by god, I am going to stop feeding it with my delusions.

Maybe it's time for me to stop dreaming and figure out how to really enjoy this life.  Maybe it's time to find my adjective. Maybe I should share the secret identity that I have been keeping from those around me.

Maybe sometimes it's okay to let dreams die.