I promise this isn’t a dig at Tom Holland, but I don’t want to revisit Spiderman: Homecoming (2017) ever again. I wince at the thought because of how visceral the memory of seeing it was. Under happier circumstances, this would’ve been a moment to celebrate the latest adaptation of everyone’s favorite web-slinger. There’s a good chance that I’d recognize it as a refreshing update that mixes in some fun John Hughes-ian plotting, but instead it has this overwhelming sense of misery for me. I think of it so little that maybe it is symbolically repressed from my memory save for this moment I was sitting there at 1 AM watching him take on The Vulture and boarding an invisible plane. This was perfectly goofy, but I was feeling hopeless.
Those capable of talking to me about the film in the week ahead would not have suspected anything was wrong. I could still formulate an organic opinion void of my emotions, but it didn’t mean that what I saw failed to connect with me, to break me free of everything going on inside. Given that I had escaped to the theaters only days prior to rewatch Baby Driver (2017), it felt like overkill. This was a summer where I was using cinema as escapism a lot, and it wasn’t always because it was hot outside.
I remember July 8, 2017 ending rather terribly. Again no fault on Holland, but he had the unfortunate happenstance of being the concluding paragraph to everything. I wasn’t supposed to see Homecoming for another two weeks when I saw it with a friend. Even then, trying to strip away the pain entirely was difficult. That was a good day because my friend was kind. July 8, 2017 wasn’t. In fact, it was an apex of sorts to a greater conflict.
On the surface, a couple’s separation always leaves some heartache. Those months and years of intimacy had to mean something. And yet, here was where everything fell apart. My sister’s marriage fell apart for a mix of reasons. Without getting too personal, a former marine suffered bad P.T.S.D. from excessive fireworks. It was maybe one of the worst years on record for Southern California explosives, but it could just be because of how complicated life was getting. He found solace in a few places, including a bar and with another woman. The former was understandable, save for the nights when I'd listen to my sister cry on the phone for him to come home. The few times that they were together weren’t much better with perpetual arguing over who was being the better parent. Egos clashed. A knife was pulled. The cops came one night to break things up. For me personally, I had to babysit overwhelmed toddlers while fireworks were blaring and our two oversized dogs had to be thrown into the bathroom because they kept jumping into the neighbor’s yard. I couldn’t control any of it. How could I not control any of it?
I hated that week with a vibrant passion for a whole host of reasons. I think on one level, it was the reality that the one person I established trust with broke it so severely. It was also the reality that I had developed a very toxic need to be a people pleaser and, as far as I could tell, was pleasing none of the people. I had none of the answers. I couldn’t stick my finger in the dyke and keep the water from pouring out, and it was the worst feeling in the world. Getting through that week wasn’t easy, and there was constant undermining and naked distrust flying. It made sense that on July 8, 2017 that others acted out. I went to sleep at my aunt’s house thinking my father was going to commit suicide after fleeing the house. I still can’t hear the phrase “I have nothing” without a crumbling memory that hurts to share.
I hadn’t planned to sleep at my aunt’s house. I hadn’t planned to see her at all. I was going to watch that awesome Twin Peaks: The Return “Episode 8” and transition to a higher plane of existence. I was going to watch Moana (2016) and introduce my sister to my favorite Disney film since Lilo & Stitch (2002). Instead, I was seeing Homecoming because of how toxic the home environment was becoming. There wasn’t anything else I could do. I needed to escape and spend the next few days overindulging on comfort movies like Frances Ha (2013) until my psyche could emerge from its jittery state. I formed trust issues for (checks notes) a whole year. I don’t know that I experienced true happiness during that time, only recontextualized emotions that were sometimes satisfyingly vulnerable but also felt like a clean break from the way things were.
July 8, 2017 was the day I turned 28.
Nothing feels as surreal as realizing that it’s officially been a half-decade since that week. Even as I hope to begin life at 33 on a very positive note, it is difficult to fully divorce myself from that time. Few moments since have been as defined in big emotion, shifting so much of my identity and worldview. While I would say that 2020 maybe rivals it in terms of despair, that was more of an internal struggle. This was a moment where the entire family was changed, where a marriage was broken up and my nieces have grown up largely without a present father.
The simple struggles have been apparent. There is the need to babysit, to make them feel loved and embrace the hallmarks of childhood. As much as I am emotionally imperfect, I want to believe that I have been there for them, if just because I owe that to my family. The complicated dynamic grows more exacerbated when you add certain subcategories, but I do what I can if just out of fear of them not recognizing their value. I want them to be stable, to not be burdened by skepticism and even accidental neglect.
As I’ve grown older, five years has felt more appallingly long than any decade. It could be that The 2016 Presidential Election was such a seismic moment in public discourse, but using it as a measuring stick reflects how long certain values have been ingrained. I can’t say that things changed since I was a teenager. They changed almost in two year increments and I am very aware of how much time continues to pass and the difficulty to process it all and cherish what value there is within them. I almost need to be more stringent in my documentation just to know that life has any value at all.
So that is why as the confetti falls from the ceiling and cakes are brought out, I for some reason stop and think about how July 8, 2017 was five years ago. There was a time when it never felt like it would be that far away. Simultaneously, it feels so near still and very informative of who I am now. There is very little doubt that the trauma of 2017 impacted the trauma of 2020. The only major difference is that I used the latter to finally address it and try to work towards an answer. I don’t know that I have the full answer, but an independent audit at least got me started. All that I used for the former was an internal battle and repetitive use of the Dear Evan Hansen soundtrack, letting “You Will Be Found” serve as this motivational cry of hope when I, as they say, feel broken on the ground.
But I suppose I should ask… how have I changed in those five years? There’s some obvious things. I’m in my 30s, the owner of an Associate Degree in English (With Honors), and the creator of TWO novels. I am coming off of one of my happiest years in a long, long time. My way of thinking has greatly improved, where my empathy has in some ways distanced me from ways I used to be but also reflective of someone with an overall better perspective on life. I feel more willing to be myself, to wonder where I want my life to go. As much as I still struggle to connect with an outside world, it’s as much the fear of being so brutally rejected again as it is social anxiety led on by autism. This isn’t to say that I cage myself off, but the instinct is still developing. I’m less scared of the world, but at the same time, I’m way too aware of age and feeling distant from a landscape that glorifies youth.
On the one hand, I recognize more than ever the value of art as escapism. I feel everything more than I used to. Those stories of unrequited love, a sense of spirituality that comes with searching for fulfillment. Films like Disobedience (2018) that recognize how these brief moments of happiness are ultimately the most fulfilling you’ll ever have. That level of intimacy, captured on the page, drawn on a canvas, recorded so that a voice echoes centuries later. I can only hope that mine will last, that I will recognize it before it passes. The effort to connect yourself to an emotion is undeniably present, and the only hope is that past you was smart enough to ignore complaints of painful sentimentalism and just go for it. This is your life. Remember it however you want.
There is a reason that I feel catharsis when watching Jules Vaughn pour out her soul in a therapy session. There is a reason that the people who are willing to be honest with themselves are the most attractive. They embody somebody recognizable, who in a world that feels continually mired in death and corruption, is looking for answers that are manageable and can lead to a better outlook on life. Maybe I am just looking for that someone I can be vulnerable with to such an embarrassing degree. Or it could be that I realized once I allowed myself to ask a question that I’ve felt better about who I am as a person.
For starters, I am not a people pleaser anymore. There isn’t this overwhelming guilt in needing to keep everybody happy. I recognize that everyone has their own agency in determining how they see the world. This isn’t to say that I have the answers. I have grown more reluctant to offer advice, for better or worse. All that I have is a willingness to collaborate, to try and do things that are productive. I am happier now, especially in a time where mental health conversations have been more socially accepted, where Billie Eilish’s “Happier Than Ever” is profoundly personal. There is a transparency that doesn’t feel like it was there not too long ago.
Five years of living with that terrible day. The sting hasn’t totally gone away and complicated emotions may cloud a lot of former goodwill. Trauma isn’t easy to cure and, quite honestly, these two examples are only the most recent in my life. There’s a lot that I must continue to unpack. However, there is something amazing about learning to live with it, to not be afraid of emotions that became victims of personal attacks. What I’ve found is that it all depends on what you look at.
My family is still there. There’s been evidence that we can survive together. It’s reflected the necessity of having a support system who will back you up and protect you when life is too much. I’ve even trusted myself more than I used to. As much as parts of life have this bittersweet twinge to them, they are also motivators now. I’ve made it five years. I can continue to live my life and make it meaningful even if I don’t always feel that I can. I don’t wish emotional pain on anyone, and yet sometimes it can be so valuable. To pull from experience, to not become anxious from uncertainty. The trick is finding the humanity within all of that and realizing how beautiful the world is. There’s good and bad days and we must live through them all. It will pass, but hopefully not without some greater meaning to your own personal narrative.
What will this day mean in five years? What will anything mean in 10? Maybe the significance of this day will fizzle as I approach 40. For now, it is a day I loathe from a historical standpoint but use as a sign of how far I’ve gone since. As I start another year of life, I am excited to see where the road continues to take me. Fingers crossed it’s somewhere good.
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