It’s been a minute!
To be fair, the last month or so has been, for lack of a better word, a mother-fucking-doozy.
I packed up the house that I’ve been living in for the last two years, which was bittersweet: I loved the house, I loved feeling like I finally had a home, I loved spending the summers gardening and giving one of our neighbors, Ms. Shae, all of my jalapeño peppers, I loved the old dude who lived behind us, Mr. Leroy… but our property management company made our lives hellish and stressful, we lived mostly amongst dilapidated walls and mold and the threat of mesothelioma, and, for a time, a family of raccoons in our ceiling. And also because it was Philadelphia there was a lot of like, murder.
We almost bought a house in Kingston, NY―like, pre-approval BAM, offer accepted BAM, but then my partner and I just… didn’t. When we went up to see the house, I was reminded of how segregated Kingston is, how segregated most places are, and also the cute Italian restaurant we went to was neighbored by a business decorated largely with Blue Lives Matters flags.
Last year, around the time we decided we wouldn’t be renewing our lease, we decided we’d celebrate our newfound homelessness with a three-week trip to Portugal. As the trip grew nearer I was, predictably, stressed. Predictably, spiraling. Some of it was the same old: What am I doing with my life? Will anything ever feel worth it, again? But also: If we’re traveling, will I yearn for a sense of home? Will I ever find a place to live that I don’t, um, hate? Can I sit with uncertainty? Are we even allowed to do this? Can we even afford this? I mean, money isn’t real, but it also is really real, so I don’t know, what do I do with that?
Anyway. Now all of our shit is in storage, and we’re in Portugal, and everything feels… fine for the first time. Every time I’m out of America, I realize that I’ve been living as if someone’s foot is on my neck. And when I land elsewhere, it’s like I can finally breathe for the first time. It’s annoying to have that realization after my partner finally got his green card, but I don’t know, man. What are ya gonna do?
My head feels clearer than it has in a long time. And instead of yearning for home―which, I think, was actually more just yearning for the comfort of being around my own stuff, feeling like I was wasting rent if I wasn’t at home sitting on the couch watching TV―I feel curious about the idea of finding a new home.
I feel like I’m finally coming to a place of accepting my limitations and choosing new places to strive, new opportunities to be brave, and accepting that I’m not exactly… ambitious.
I think I’ve been holding on to the person I made myself up to be for so long―ruled by anxiety, a reluctant writer, a self-loathing misanthrope―without thinking of who I actually am, or who I actually could be, could grow in to. Like, maybe I am those things. But also, maybe I can explore new shit and shift into a new identity. I mean, I am middle aged now. Oh my god, is this a midlife crisis???
While my last few months in Philly were stressful―moving, yeah, but also just being lol―it was also a glimpse into who I could be, or maybe who I am, really. Instead of staying firmly inside of myself, I hung out with people and had a really great time. I made a couple of really good friends. I crept ever-so-slowly out of my comfort zone and was rewarded for it. I asked simple questions that I was afraid to ask and got gracious, welcoming answers. I lived, I laughed, I loved. LOL, just kidding.
Anyway, with all that said I’m guessing since writing isn’t something I’m trying to force myself to do anymore, this might become a more… sporadic newsletter. But also I might change my mind! I really don’t know anymore, and I’m … kind of okay with that? Shocking, I know.
I’ll still be spiraling, just from afar, okay?