It had been more comforting to imagine that I might eventually “optimize” myself into the kind of person who could confront such decisions without fear, feeling totally in charge of the process. I didn’t want to accept that this was never going to happen—that fear was part of the deal, and that experiencing it wouldn’t destroy me.

I could easily make lists of whatever came into my head but could not decide between them because in one mood one would be important, in a different mood another; I had never followed any one of them whole-heartedly. I had thought I wanted a great many friends, but had often refused invitations because I hated to feel the beautiful free space of an empty day, free for me to do what I liked in, broken into by social obligations. I had thought I wanted to be a unique individual, but had been filled with shame when anyone disagreed with me, hastening to take back what I had said. I had thought I wanted to be importantly useful in the world, but avoided all opportunities for responsibility. I had thought I wanted to plumb human experience to the depths, and yet had striven to remain immaculately aloof from all emotional disturbance.

I had the desire always to be getting things done to prove to myself that I existed as a person at all.

Because I’d like to be the sort of person who can enjoy things at the time, instead of having to go back in my head and enjoy them then.

Once a friend had told me that it was only when I was drunk that I seemed to know exactly what I wanted.