A high-flying jet leaving a condensation trail (contrail). Source: Wikipedia

Don’t tell anyone, but I have a secret. I’ve been keeping it quiet — this is mid-January, people are cold and cranky and everyone I know seems to be arguing, either in person or on Facebook — I haven’t wanted to irritate anyone further.

Most of the arguments — incredibly heated, the kind that wreck friendships in the blink of an eye — are about things like whether contrails are a natural result of airplane flight or a government plan to change our atmosphere. Or, how long we have until global warming kills us off: six years? 25 years? Can we reverse the effects? Is global warming a liberal fantasy in the first place?

I know how an argument like this — big question, impossible to answer — can jeopardize an otherwise thriving relationship. My favorite ex-boyfriend Tad and I only had one subject we truly, passionately, disagreed on: whether O.J. Simpson was innocent. From here it seems ridiculous, but we almost came to blows. Once a year this would come up and ruin a day for us. We never resolved it: neither capitulated to the other’s view. We either got tired of fighting or something else struck us as funny and once we got laughing together again, we were fine. Tad is dead now, so I’ve won the argument by default, which is no consolation.

In my humble opinion, arguments over O.J., contrails, and global warming are part of a basic issue that everyone faces: are we in control of our lives, or are we powerless? And if we’re powerless, how can we learn to bear it?

Not being in control is a primal human fear. Without agency, how will we survive? We try to protect ourselves with knowledge, skills, understanding, or surrender. Yet even those who’ve turned themselves over to one of the gods and said “Thy will be done,” still get plenty attached to the placement of a backyard fence.

Powerlessness is something we run into all the time. Sudden death from disease or car crash. Betrayal, adultery, divorce, the roulette wheel landing on red instead of black. Genetics. Admitting this — carrying it around in your breast pocket every day, is hard. But not admitting it keeps you constantly battle-ready, likely to join every argument-du-jour just to prove to yourself and others that you’re in charge.

You’re not in charge. Neither am I. That’s no secret.

My secret is that ever since October 9th, the day I suddenly accepted that I had been powerless when I was being hurt as a kid — which happened in a fancy restaurant in Portland, Oregon of all places, and felt entirely physical, like being doused with ice water — I’ve been slowly growing happier and happier

It’s January. I’m still single. Wrinkles still crowd onto my face like shipwreck-survivors into a lifeboat. My bank account, as usual, nestles comfortably in the low three figures. The weather’s unseasonably warm and white lines criss-cross the winter sky. Nothing in my life has changed.

Except I’m happy. And everything’s changed.

More by Molly Fisk:

Deportee

Pick A Word for the Year

The Swan