Butchblog

Yes, I am an unapologetic pessimist. Have been for some time–pretty much my whole adult life. You know, no good deed goes unpunished, things will only get worse and we’re all gonna die kind of guy. I don’t remember being this way when I  was a kid; maybe kids are neither optimistic nor pessimistic. They simply live in the present–lucky little shits. But for me, not so easy. Now I feel shocked when I wake up in the morning, greet my wife with a hug and see her smiling. “What is there to be happy about at this hour?” I ask. She laughs. “It’s going to be a great day, sweetie.”

            It will take me an hour or so to come out of my nighttime funk, and even then I will be reluctant to face the day, especially after having read the news-feeds on my phone. I shouldn’t do that, I know, but who can avoid the daily insults that have become our nation’s life.

             When I’m done making myself sad with the latest Trumpy outrage, I force myself to get up and do something–anything. It used to be work that kept me putting one foot in front of the other. Now I have to make up the reasons for activity. Go for a walk, go to the gym or the library, to the store to buy groceries, throw in a load of laundry, phone a friend. I know I must move, get out in the world, walk to the beach, stare at the sky. My pessimism is tempered with the notion that, despite all the pain, one must never give up. The world might suck, but we are still required to engage with it. That’s the deal we make in staying alive. What counts most is staying in the battle.  

            There are, though, benefits to being a pessimist. Primarily, that when things occasionally do go well, we are pleasantly surprised, even feel those rare tingles of–what do you call it–oh right, joy. I must admit I’ve had more than my fair share of good things in my life. I’ve been damn lucky, am relatively secure financially, live in a safe and pleasant town in a comfortable home, have a great wife who loves me, and children who have turned out to be smart, decent people. Shouldn’t that be proof enough that the arc of life bends toward goodness (with apologies to MLK Jr.).

            However, as a pessimist in good standing, I reject the concept of the basic goodness of human beings and consider our long and pathetic attempts at creating a just world. The vast majority of people throughout the world, still live lives of desperation and brutishness; look no farther than the endless wave of immigrants trying to escape the ravages of their native lands–war, famine, oppression and lack of any opportunity to rise. It’s still the Middle-Ages out there. What kind of cruel nation wants to throw these tortured souls into detention centers, ship them off to prisons in countries where they have no family or friends? Some days I despair. How did we sink so low, become so mean-spirited?

            The question that I’m left with, that all pessimists are, is it worth going on? Is life worth living? My answer is a resounding YES. Gee, that sounds frighteningly optimistic, doesn’t it. I don’t mean it to be. Here again, is where pessimism is a more functional response to the craziness and unpredictability of the world. (Remember, pessimism is not the same as depression, though both can, and often do, reside within the same person.) I propose that optimists are more susceptible to depression than us curmudgeons. The bubbly optimists are much more easily disappointed when things don’t go their way. They’re expecting their team to win, to hit the lottery, to meet Mr. or Mrs. Right, to have a delicious meal when they go to an expensive restaurant. Of course, then they’re shattered when the food is shitty, their horse finishes last, it rains when they had planned a picnic, the new lover doesn’t call, and the million other insults of daily life. They, those dang happy people, have no shell for protection, no ability to shrug defeat off as inevitable and expected. As a pessimist, when my daily life runs aground, when the political landscape of our country makes me want to tear my remaining hair out, I am ready for the anguish, have the ability to move on, to see what kinda crap the next hour or day will bring. And once again, being quietly happy when that good stuff comes unexpectedly popping in.

            So, is the glass half-empty or half-full? That’s actually a pretty stupid question. The glass is what it is. It’s a glass with some liquid in it. Drink it or don’t. Maybe pessimism is just another word for realism. I can’t, and won’t, cover my eyes and pretend that life on this planet is loving and blissful. Nor can I say with any certainty that we, as a species, are not indeed evolving into something finer and more humane. But in the meantime, I do what I must–I stumble on, ever hopeful, ever ready to be surprised. But I’m not about to admit that.