For Sherri: 5 of 6

Sherri’s Confession

 

What surprises me most about my life now is…

How happy I am. Really, more than not. Well, mostly.

They say it’s youthful folly, all that unlimited potential you’re certain to do great things, whatever they are. You’re so bright, so talented, so great, so special. Whoever can’t see that is a fool.

And you believe them. And you go on believing in the face of reality scary competition. People who don’t see you, don’t care, don’t want to care.

I spend three years vagabonding around Europe, then came back to the U.S. Finished my degree, went to work in television in Terre Haute, Indiana, where I fell on my face, where I didn’t fit in. Came running back to weird, safe San Francisco.

I did some work I hated, did some art, got into debt, wasted time. Felt angry, unloved, alone. Lonely.

And I had the handsome prince despite my feminist convictions rescue me after all. Nathaniel, my gentle, sweet, brilliant, oddball absent-minded professor.

        He grounded me, helped with money, gave me a home and a beautiful child. We have a pretty house on the hill overlooking Point Reyes and the Farallons. I am needed. I am loved.

        But I feel creatively stymied.  I chose, and paid a price, We all have to do that in this life. My choice was a good one, overall.

But I mourn for what I never have, will never be. I mourn for the creative work I find so hard to do, the places I will never see, the talents I lack.

My most obsessive thought is that time is running out. That, being mortal, I wont get to do what I want with the rest of my life. There are too many things I haven’t experienced, or seen or done.

And no matter what I do, there still won’t be enough time. I have enough dreams and places and goals and wishes to last several life times. No matter what, when I die, some goals won’t be accomplished.

When I die, I won’t be (especially) afraid. Death itself is natural, something that every living thing experiences, I’m not going to be afraid- more pissed off, regretful of anything I didn’t get to do.

Yeah, this is the human condition. I know that. That doesn’t mean I like it, or accept it.

As I tell everybody all I want in life is a gorgeous slim body, Stephen Sondheim’s talent, next week’s lotto numbers, and a date with Hugh Jackman.

        Instead, I settle for the fat body I’ve got, my own meager talents and finances, and genuine love from a good, true husband and daughter.

Can I do more with the life I have left? Will I find the strength to be creative?

This is my hope, my sorrow, my fear.