What If This Were Enough?: Essays

by Heather Havrilesky

I might’ve imagined I would land somewhere like that eventually. Or maybe I suspected that I would never be worthy of that kind of a life. Either way, I probably should have cultivated more empathy for that man, who was so clearly in a lot of pain. But I still remember how good it felt to smash the handset of my phone into pieces. I hadn’t even moved in yet and I was already furious. I was in love and I already hated the guy. I knew I shouldn’t move in with him. But it almost felt satisfying to hate him. My disappointment had a clear source. I would try to make things perfect and I would fail, over and over again. I couldn’t just love someone and be loved back. That was too easy. That didn’t feel right. I was more familiar with dissatisfaction. I was more at home with longing. As I moved my things into that dusty, tiny, haunted house, I looked around and thought, “This will never be enough.” It was exactly what I wanted.