I always liked choose-your-own-adventure stories. At the end of every page you were obliged to make a choice: “If you want to follow the man, turn to page 53. If you want to investigate the noise in the bushes, turn to page 61.” Frequently, you’d end up at some awful dead-end. The protagonist would be killed gruesomely or wake up, strapped into a chair, being turned into a mindless slave. At that point your only choices were to re-start the story or to turn back to your previous page and pick another path.
I was in my mid-thirties when I discovered that I could travel backwards through time. I was drunk, at the time, reflecting on my sham of a life as it stood then. A loveless marriage, two appalling children, a mediocre career: I’d made a mess of the whole thing. The only consolation I could find to tell myself was that it might have been other than it was. I might have made different choices. I could have been a better person.
I tried to think back, to find the moment where it all went wrong. There wasn’t just one, of course, but a procession of missed opportunities, of cowardice, of sloth. It hurt to remember the many ways I had betrayed myself. I was desperate to avoid drawing the obvious conclusion about myself. I focused on one moment: an opportunity I had refused and that I regretted bitterly.
It had been a couple of years prior, and I was working late on a big project. Exhausted from another twelve hour day, my coworkers and I decided that we were done for the night and that we should get drunk. We emptied the office fridge of beer, sent someone out to fetch more, and kept drinking. One by one, my colleagues dropped away until I found myself alone on a couch in the office with an attractive co-worker. We’d always had a certain frisson, a certain sexual energy, and I could feel the heat of it crackling between us now. Both of us knew what was going on as we continued to pretend to chat. Our legs were casually pressed against each other, my hand rested on their arm.
And then my partner called. What could I do? I answered it. The resentful question posed itself: where was I? In the background I could hear the baby crying. I was drinking with colleagues, but yes, of course, I was just about to come home. Yes, I was sorry for not getting in touch. Yes, I loved them.
The spell between my co-worker and I was broken. I went home and returned to my family and the two of us would act like nothing had ever happened.
I poured myself another glass. What if I’d ignored the phone, I wondered. What might have happened?
I found myself back on that office couch, sitting so close to my colleague that I could smell whatever it was they had put in their hair, and it smelled good. We were both waiting, the hungry absence before the wave crashes. Any moment could be the right moment. I turned my phone off, and tossed it on the carpet. Our moment arrived, and it tasted sweet and free and hungry.
Have you ever had an affair? Ever cheated on someone? It is the most exquisite blend of appetite and disgust, of need and guilt. It sharpens every stolen moment into its own crystalline jewel, set into a silver filigree of lies, evasions and excuses that curl around everything in your life. You can go years living like this, but eventually your lies will crumble and your state will be revealed for what it is.
So that was a mistake. I felt confident, after two attempts at married life, that it was not for me. That moment on our trip overseas, walking on the beach with my lover, hand in hand, when my heart ached with love, when I took their hand and told them that we should get married. That was the moment I should have taken back. Stop the whole, messy disaster before it was too late.
This time I let myself feel that love and I remained silent. The trip ended well, but neither of us were surprised when, a few months after returning, we parted, amicably. It just wasn’t meant to be.
The trick with time travel, I discovered, is memory. No-one else can remember the years of struggling to make a relationship work. No-one else remembers the bitter arguments, the ugly habits that form in the crucible of a trapped couple’s life. They can see the effect of it, though.
I was ruined for other partners, for a long time. I’d meet someone new, things would spark, a relationship would bloom, and some part of me would begin screaming. Soon, everything they said would become a trap, an irritation, a reminder of arguments past. I had to get out. I bounced around for some years, leaving confused and hurt partners in my wake.
Perhaps, I decided, I was focusing on the wrong aspect of my life. Perhaps my mediocre career was the root of my discontent. For years after my graduation I had followed a standard progression, moving from big company to big company. I wasn’t a failure, but neither was I especially talented. The companies I worked for, and the salary I earned reflected this.
This time, instead of safe jobs, I would seek out riskier positions. I would dare more. This approach returned dividends. I was involved in more interesting projects, I became a part of talented teams and sometimes I was even proud of the work that we achieved. I was paid less, but my desires were scant.
Sadly, this approach also proved a mirage in my quest for happiness. I had breached my thirties, focused on my career. I still felt a hollow in the pit of my guts when I thought about who I was and where I belonged.
What could I do? What other choices remained me? I contemplated suicide but I knew I’d never have the nerve. I made a few aborted attempts at a life of hedonism but frankly, I’m not the type. Too boring, I suppose. I tried half-heartedly to investigate the spiritual. It was not for me.
Finally, I had a revelation, if you can call it that. The single common element in all my attempts to escape ennui was me. I was the problem. No wonder I couldn’t escape the emptiness. I was empty, and nothing outside of me could fill the void.
I needed to discover who I was, and to find a way to live in integrity with that. I embarked on a journey of self-awakening, one that took me halfway across the world, across many years. I explored and probed and learned many things about who I was.
It turns out: I’m an asshole.
I hate everyone and everything. I hate joy. I hate happiness. I hate beauty and family and love. I hate foreigners and foreign lands. I hate my hometown and the locals that abide in it. I hate the weather, all weather: I hate sun and rain and mist and snow and wind and wet and dry. I hate change. I hate it when everything stays the same. I hate seeing people do well. I especially hate seeing my friends do well.
I do enjoy seeing them do badly, though. That cheers me right up.
At first I considered surrounding myself with especially unfortunate souls. I imagined I might be forced to engineer unhappiness in those around me. I’m quite good at that.
But it turns out terrible things are constantly happening to people. Arbitrary tragedies and unjust inconveniences. I don’t even have to provoke them. Once I started looking, I realised that they happen all around me, to everyone, all the time. I need only ask people how their day was, or how things are going at the moment, and I hear it all. Bankruptcies, betrayals, bereavements. Depression, disappointments, despair. We’re positively soaking in it. You might call it inescapable.
These days I’m doing quite well. I don’t think I’ll need to use my powers again.
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