One evening, late this summer, I declared myself the Mozart of Bitterness. I was sitting neatly on the end of the couch that doesn’t get sat on. It was one way to be less hot. I felt high up, tilted. My legs dangled. I had opened the window too, but it was of no use. The air wasn’t moving.
My elementary music teacher Mrs. Jackson wore long cotton dresses with sneakers. During her first divorce from Mr. Jackson, she taught us to sing “I’m Gonna Wash That Man Right Outa My Hair,” which, in retrospect, was weird. The other thing I remember about her is that she told us that Mozart could hear in his mind’s ear an entire symphony in a single moment. Every beat, phrase, and measure, from the allegro to the adagio to the rondo. His mind could collapse it all into just one second. It was then only a matter of unfurling his masterpiece and bringing it to the page. This was the nature of his genius.
No one on the internet wants any part of this story, so I guess it was just another one of Mrs. Jackson’s pedagogical flourishes. That didn’t stop me from declaring myself the Mozart of Bitterness that evening, late this summer.
I spot a name in my inbox, and, in a single moment, I can conjure every wrong ever committed by the possessor of that name. I relive the pain of that time she stood me up at that one coffee shop with the fruit-free scones; that time she was thumbing through a stack of cropped pants at J. Crew and, just for my benefit, sighed, “I suppose I’m up to a size 6 now”; that time at the party in that warehouse when she gave me the look that I know meant I was talking too much about my ex and, further, that I’m a self-involved person generally and lucky to have anyone who’ll listen to me carry on at all. Yes, I can experience all of that in a single moment.
To be clear, my bitterness is not reserved for any one person in particular. It’s for anyone. It’s for everyone. And I conjure wrongs both big and small, both real and imagined. I relive them all.
This is the nature of my genius.
The Mozart of Bitterness. I chuckled at the thought in spite of myself. I’ve been depressed.
While I’ve always had the trappings of depression–extreme introspection, a tendency to leave rooms suddenly, a personal narrative blog–only recently did I start feeling depressed. Years ago, after my then-fiance summarily dumped me over the phone, my therapist suggested that I let myself feel sad. I tried to convince him that I simply didn’t know how.
“I don’t own sweatpants, and I don’t listen to Bon Iver,” I said.
“I can’t eat whole pints of Ben & Jerry’s. I’m lactose intolerant,” I said.
“I like Beyonce and pizza and jokes,” I said.
It seemed that grieving would be so much easier for me if only I knew how to feel sad. I dreamed that one day I would develop the depth of emotion and character to fully experience loss, to sit with it, to just be with it.
I’m here to tell you that dreams really do come true. Five years on, I’m not just an expert at experiencing loss. I’m a virtuoso. After all, I’ve managed to achieve this state of grinding hopelessness and despair in response to the most ordinary of disappointments. Friends of mine are divorcing, breaking up, falling out with me or with each other. It’s true that I’ve had my share of medical trouble, but, if anything, cancer wound up being a good excuse to start a blog and a great way to get people to show up to my birthday party. I don’t know how I got this way, but at some point in the past few months, life started to feel like nothing but an accumulation of burdens.
To wit, my mind can twist a monosyllabic text message into a grievous offense, a routine interaction with a customer service agent into a referendum on her character, a friend’s suggestion to keep a gratitude journal into cause for a 2,000-word e-mail laying out a critique of the neoliberal sham we call positive psychology.
My imagination, once applied to daydreaming about being surprisingly good at karaoke or delivering stirring speeches before an audience that happens to include everyone I’ve ever wanted to impress, is now used to stretch my capacity to be cruel. I use my imagination to develop and refine diatribes, rants, condemnations, denunciations to suit all occasions and tastes. I select and arrange words in ways ever more punishing to their imagined target. In my daydreams, I’ve become as sharp-tongued as I was inspirational. I am, no doubt, the Mozart of Bitterness.
Three months ago, I wrote that I was the Mozart of Bitterness. I liked the idea. It felt very me, but I couldn’t figure out where the piece was going. It needed a turn of some sort–a sign of hope. I wanted it to end with a breeze that felt just right on my forearm or a bit of sunlight breaking through the tree branches. I waited for the turn to come.
But as it happened, my life turned in the most utterly ordinary way. I was suddenly no longer depressed, and it was because of nothing grander or more poetic than 50 mg of Zoloft a day and a new boyfriend. It’s a hard thing for me to admit. I just hate to be so basic.