I’m a 61-year-old retired guy who has everything I could ever want or need in life. Why do I cry at night?
As I approached the second anniversary of my retirement from a lifetime of employment, I finally started feeling that existential angst that comes with not going to work each morning. Not contributing to society anymore—in ways that can be pointed to and are rewarded with pay. No longer having a clear sense of purpose in my daily routine. Nor, my life.
I found myself pacing and sighing a lot. Self-conscious of the sighs, I’d turn to Mary and act as if I were tired. I was tired. I told myself that the woman I love, the woman I have been married to for 40 years, did not see through me. She did—but would leave the illusion untouched.
Counselors, magazines, and blogs warn that this will happen. But not to me. We recently have been blessed with two grandchildren—both out of town, necessitating day trips and vacations. We have an ever-expanding list of travel destinations, shows to go to, and projects to complete. I have a side-hustle maintaining a website for a friend, which has opened up some opportunities to write some code. There are a million things on my plate to keep me occupied and amused until the end of my days.
Occupied and amused are not enough. A hole has opened inside me. I could look away from it and engage myself with activity, but the coldness of the hole has reached my neck and finds its way down my spine at night. I could pretend I wasn’t seeing it, but the darkness of the hole had begun to surround me.
Adding a room to my house did not fill the hole. Adding a car I’ve dreamt of owning did not fill it. Volunteer work and helping friends through difficult times did not fill it. Being with family would help me around the hole, but only help me around it. I feel that I am growing through trips and new experiences, but the hole remains. I can feel its profound emptiness, even as I keep my distance.
The hole remains, and it grows larger. No, it does not grow larger. I am getting closer to it. Soon I will be at the edge, staring deeply into it. Staring deeply into it, wondering if it would swallow me or if I would throw myself in.
There are stories of men who die within months of retiring. They feel useless, discarded, empty. Who they are had been taken from them.
I have little in common with its target demographic (unless there’s more I need to talk to myself about), but an unholy blend of ennui and curiosity led me to the beautiful TV Tokyo anime series, Simoun. A dozen young priestesses fly mysterious ‘chariots of the gods’ and write prayers to the sky with trails of light. Until they are thrown into war, lose their liberty, question their faith, grow up, and are eventually disbanded and scattered. In the end, everything they wanted to do in life was taken from them. They had to face hard realities and find purpose—a path forward. Some gave of themselves, some gave more than any should be asked to give, some simply returned to life and moved ahead. Some chose not to decide and charged into a universe that would eventually decide their fate for them.
I felt a painful emptiness. I empathized. I cried.
Two years ago, in the turmoil of the most massive and brutal restructuring I have ever witnessed, let alone been a part of, the team I loved was disbanded. Dozens of my compatriots were let go. My leader and I were told we were no longer useful to the new order. I had spent 36 years at this corporation, investing my soul and building the respect of my coworkers and leadership. I had spent a lifetime knowing this is what I wanted to do. A lifetime knowing this was who I wanted to be. And now, my employment, the nucleus of my identity, my perverse ikigai, at age 59, had ended.
As I watched my coworkers thrown to the street with a thin mattress of a severance package to cushion them, I was offered the gift of an early retirement package. If I refused the gift, I would be terminated with no more than was given to the employees who were falling around me. There were no other choices. I held my head high, accepted the gift, and told the world I was strong, and I was excited about any adventure that awaits.
Two years later, the lie unfolds inside me. My sense of purpose is gone. I had lost who I am.
I had a good cry this morning. I cried in front of my wife. With increasing intensity and honesty, I ripped at the soiled bandages and let her … and tried to let her see the pain I’ve been hiding.
Mary knew it was coming. She knew when the pain became unbearable, it would burst out of me. She has been holding my hand as I pushed ahead. But she cannot lead me through it because she does not know my path. It is my path to know, and I don’t know my path.
So, she points to guideposts I may not have seen, trails I may have unknowingly passed. I told her I feel like the cartoon character who runs off the side of a cliff and has been running in place for two years before noticing the abyss. She told me I have a way with metaphors—too bad, she says, I can’t find a way of using it.
Hours later, still dwelling on it, Mary suggests that I really enjoy solving problems, helping people solve their problems. True. But an idea was growing inside me, I had toyed with it over the last couple of years. I had grown frustrated with it and set it aside, only to pick it up again and set aside again. Only half recognizing that it is a love I have carried with me and held close since childhood. Wondering if this, too, is who I am.
I turned to Mary and replied that I don’t want to solve problems anymore. I want to ask questions.
When I write, the process starts with a sentence or phrase that turns in my head. I listen to it. I work with it, shaping it, molding it. When the sentence, phrase, or paragraph evokes a strong reaction in me, I start to build on it, sometimes working toward it, sometimes working away from it.
This morning I decided I’d write something from the lines:
I’m a 61-year-old retired guy who has everything I could ever want or need in life. Why do I cry at night?
The irony was lost on me, until I put virtual pen to paper, that the decision of how I expressed the question suggests an answer and a path.
M.T.
I have been there. Seemed my only answer was, I worked for 40 yrs at the job I was leaving. Working days that I felt so hung over I wished I had been dead instead. Worked on days people needed me to be there for them. Worked on my birthday, worked on holidays, worked weekends because the job had to be done. A singleness of purpose…. work to pay the bills.
When my emotions were telling me I should have stayed working, I too faced my abiss. It wasn’t till I heard the pop, my recognition of what I sacrificed for 40 yrs, the truth was I never appreciated that time. That all I ever wanted was to be where I was now. After all said and done I was not going to waist time wondering what happened. I had done that for 40 yrs. The pop I heard was my head coming out of my ass.
Now I know a freedom I never knew exsistef. My god has an amusing grace. It will be ok my friend. I’m happy with who I am and could have never been that without you. Love and peace