A Reflection on the Unattainable
After a year of wistful thinking, I was ready for some change. So when the school year finally ended and I could leave campus without lingering FOMO, I did. I dreamt of going to LA on my own. Was it crazy to go to a city I knew nothing about? I never thought it would actually happen, until my plane touched down in LAX (with my dream and cardigan).
What had led me to make such a decision? For starters, I have always thought of LA as some magical, unattainable land. Maybe it’s the New Yorker in me that longs for the unfamiliar West Coast or maybe it really is just LA that seems so appealing. Either way, my aspirations to live in a city that houses entertainers, hipsters, and surfers seemed to be a perfect fit. However, there was another reason why I went to the West Coast. Don’t get me wrong, the main reason for me going was to fulfill my creative endeavors and long ruminating dreams of what living in the City of Angels might be like.
But, the city was also home to my ex. An ex who had broken up with me in the middle of the pandemic and in the middle of us being in love, because of distance. In addition to being across the country, we were personally in such distanced stages of our young adult lives. The year of sitting alone in my apartment, dreading my dinner of hummus and pita, and re-watching Big Mouth until I knew all the musical numbers, was all but enjoyable. There were good days alone in my apartment, but most days were overwhelmingly disparaging. The “what if” thoughts about an ex who seemed to leave me so abruptly were constantly suspended in the stillness of my single apartment and my single life.
The unattainable nature of my ex, and our relationship, was of course impossible to obtain. The peak of our relationship existed on Duke’s campus, in a pre-pandemic world. But, when alone in my room with only my own thoughts to keep me company, how could I not yearn for the past?
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I feel I sound ridiculous voicing my “struggles” during the pandemic because after all, I was safe, receiving a great education, and being supported by my parents. And yet, I did struggle. I need to give myself that validation in the days and weeks that seemed to mesh together in a sort of disgusting delirium of struggling to get out of bed.
My obsessing was no surprise, I have struggled with OCD since I was in elementary school. Yet, my obsessive thinking reached a point where I often prefaced my ideas with “I know this sounds crazy, but...”. I frequently thought about driving to the airport and getting on the next plane to LA with the clothes on my back. I would figure it out… it was a test; a survival of sorts. A challenge. I could get there as soon as possible, at most in a day, if I wanted to.
The month before he broke up with me, I had started to consider a change in our relationship. What would it mean if we made the relationship open? What if we took a break? The distance and time apart, though it granted me independence in my daily life, was starting to become too painful. I began to envy my friends who had their partners within reach. Planning our next visits, though exciting, was only a reminder of how much time we would have to spend apart before seeing each other again. And even then, would I only think about the fleeting time we had together before we would have to start planning again? But, what was the alternative? Not having him in my life? No, I would have rather had those ten days together for every forty days apart. When he broke up with me, these thoughts seemed to fade as if they never existed.
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The unattainable, though knowingly never satiated, is the most desired. Even as a blanketed meta statement, I believe it to be true. All my most obsessive thoughts and troubling wants are impossible. My obsessive thinking wasn’t pushing me to any kind of clarity or realization. It took me to landing in LAX to realize, that even though I had found a place to live, boarded the plane, and now found myself in the ‘hills,’ I couldn’t, physically, do anything to recreate my past relationship. Dwelling on how I would act, what I would wear, or how would I approach him, seemed to carry a weight of supernatural power. It became clear only after a week of nauseous nerves and overplanning my ‘look,’ did I find the importance (or lack thereof) of the unattainable. I couldn’t mind control, I couldn’t reverse time, I couldn’t hypnotize him; our fate was out of my hands.
As I still try to find level footing in my confusing early 20’s, I struggle to accept the things out of my reach. If the pandemic has taught me anything, it is how out of control I am with my surroundings. That reality is unnerving -- not knowing and not being able to do anything about it. But I am trying to accept it.
Perhaps a better start to this rant-essay would have been my latest reading of Joan Didion’s The Year of Magical Thinking. A book I chose as a beach-read which proved to be unfitting to the genre, and yet I read it at the beach. The book, to those who haven’t read it but should, is a personal account of loss and grief: the reflection of times gone, despite hours of wishing and willing, the inability to get what was most desired, back. Didion was dealing with the loss of her husband while I was only dealing with a breakup, but the same holds true of any unfeasible situation: though with discomfort, sometimes you must just accept the nature of it, and be okay with what cannot be done.
I can’t overthink away a year of loss and destruction, or even get a love - my best friend - back. The drive I have for such things I will channel into goals, attainable goals that I can work towards. Learning to let go, though still to give time to full-heartedly reflect on what can’t be, is much easier said than done, but I’m trying.
By Devin Yadav
Call Me By Your Name obsessed, wannabe Bowie groupie, and off-brand irl Moana