If you're an onion, I'm an onion
“Everything’s fine. I’m happy, I promise. I’ll be happy.”
To my understanding, The White Lotus was billed as a “dark comedy.” What I was not prepared for was a long-form horror film that systematically outlined the casual abuses of participating in this capitalist society. White people tragi-comedies are generally not my thing, but everyone kept running their mouths about how “good” it was, so I caved because I’m a fool desperately in search of any distraction from the mundane reality of slowly cooking to death.
And much like when I was made to read Catcher In The Rye in high school, I did not warm to The White Lotus. Not until I read enough critical analysis on it that explained to me why it’s meant to be unlikeable, which did not make me like it but did make me continue watching with the validation that my sentiment was at least correct. That ending? Bleak! However, throw a middling underdog journalist into any narrative and I cannot help but self-identity-and-destroy.
Rachel (forgot her last name) (played by Alexandria Daddario) is probably the least offensive white in the group of wealthy vacationers, but she has a terrible secret. She’s……. unhappy!
Newly married to the most offensive white at the resort, throughout the show’s eight episodes it somehow just dawns on Rachel that he sucks and she’s made a terrible mistake marrying him. Because she’s… a (self-appointed) trophy wife. In this economy??
Rachel is clearly “not like those other rich people,” as evidenced by her mumbly aspirations to do journalism, despite employment being unnecessary now that she’s married into wealth. To a dude who she didn’t realize was such a flop for a lot of reasons people get with anyone — when we met I was in a weird place, he was so charming and swept me off my feet. Not so wild to assume then that he had the wrong idea about her the whole time as well. No one autopilots themselves into a Faustian bargain but they sure do into relationships all the time.
Hell, if she could see the forest through the trees (is that how that saying goes?) Rachel could’ve realized that she already had Shane legally wrapped around her little finger and get him to fund whatever professional aspirations that struck her, with a little bit of that trophy wife magic (read: manipulation) to make him feel proud for having done it. Shanes are easy creatures to operate. Maybe she will, since she backpedaled right back into his arms, after spa center sorceress Belinda was out of fucks to give.
I’ve dated Shanes before, who thought my little creative career was cute, and who were more interested in my particular combination of clever and beautiful that made them proud to have me, but not much more curious beyond how they chose to perceive me (beautiful and clever). To be fair, I played into that as well. I’m a real sucker for flattery. They absorbed the things about me that aligned with their worldview and became agitated and upset when I had feelings that inconvenienced that worldview. They rarely asked questions. And when they did, they didn’t really listen.
To see someone decide to stay with that guy at the expense of denying their own personhood is a bleak conclusion. I would know. But it’s not an uncommon one, hence its bleakness. The amount of hope that powers us through doubt in relationships could power a rocket big enough to send all the billionaires to space (for good). But I don’t think it’s hope that’s made Rachel stick by her man, which is where the real tragedy is.
I get the isolation and loneliness of being with a person who seems committed to misunderstanding you, and the shame of self-betrayal when you allow it to go on. It’s a common casualty of romantic love, the kind of love we believe to be True Love™. So much of it involves feelings created by our own perceptions and memories of a person, and sometimes the right amount of boxes they tick according to our needs and wants. Facts are far less romantic and way lonelier. I get it. Why be lonely when you could be adored instead?
Not to say romance is a sham. It’s very necessary! Romance is great and it’s fun! It’s all frothy indulgence, extra sweetener, full fat, and the entire inventory of affection’s most generous sleeves. Romance is a necessary balm to lubricate the roughness of truth; it helps it go down smoother. How else would we tolerate the challenges of relationships? For better or worse, it does the job of keeping us together. Sometimes even when we shouldn’t be.
That’s not me being cynical about love — just that romance gets confused for it too often. So much of what we don’t expect when we decide to love a person is the inner guts of who they really and actually are. And to my knowledge, there has yet to be a flattering depiction of guts. It’s easier to chose not to see it. Accepting the reality of the person you chose to love can be a freeing way to build closeness in the best cases and completely isolating in the worst. If you want a marriage to last(ish), marry for money, citizenship, or a deep abiding love and devotion — but don’t settle at just romance. Romance keeps the bed warm but it doesn’t pay the heating bills.
In Rachel’s case, it might be her loneliness that’s simultaneously alienating her in her marriage and keeping her holding on to it. Loneliness has been a common theme this past year for everyone, it seems. And it only feels louder with company. When it’s just me, by myself, at least it’s mine. I can choose to put it away. I count the things I want that I have and remind myself of their richness. I can decide what I want to do and when I do it. I can write this stupid blog and send it to your inbox. I have so much control over my life that it keeps me up at night —
Usually between the hours of 3 am and 5 am for the past week. And I’m unable to fall back asleep for hours. I read that the thing to do in these situations is to get out of bed and do a little activity to tire your brain out to fall back asleep. I’m not a “do a little activity in the middle of the night” kind of person but after the fifth night in a row, I decided to give it a shot.
I shuffled around my sleeping apartment, dimly lit by the tiny LED power lights on various devices and the sun’s dim rising glow. I put the dishes away, refilled the filtered water pitcher in the fridge, and saged my entire space to rid it of any potential spooks. You have to make sure the smoke gets in all the nooks and crannies so this is an activity that requires the perfect amount of tedium to dull my brain back to bed. I blew on the embers, coaxing smoke to curl into all the places I can’t reach, thinking — praying — everything’s fine. I’m happy, I promise. I’ll be happy.