Walking through Shoreditch staring at the array of bars and restaurants and stylish people, I turned to my companions in wonder and asked Why don’t I live in a place I want to be, with people I want to look at?
Jeffrey didn’t understand, because he had fun in Cambridge, but Byron shook his head mournfully; he feels it more than I ever could, since he prefers the wild flirtatious antics available elsewhere.
Within about half a block I had sorted out this dilemma because I remembered that I never look at other people, especially those who want the attention. And, more significantly, the Shoreditch scene (while attractive) looks a lot like home, in the sense that everyone is wearing ironic T-shirts.
Later, standing around a hipster (I have not identified the equivalent local term) bar, Sunok asked why I don’t move to London. I shrugged and said If I were here I would just be thinking about the next place.
She looked at Peter and he clarified She is the traveling sort.
This is true, and something I did not know until Sarah-Jane pointed it out to me, several years after I decided to abandon everything familiar – and accept the consequences.
The trick is that I do not enjoy living in Cambridge more or less than anywhere else. Each city has advantages and disadvantages, is equally lovely and horrible in its own special way. My relative happiness has almost nothing to do with the place itself.
If asked I might say the worst town I’ve ever lived in is Shelton – but why? Because my time was divided between a job that crushed my youthful ideals, and shifts caring for my grandmother in hospice. The only clear memory I have from that year is watching her face as she died, and falling to my knees sobbing (much to the dismay of my stoic family – we do not collectively indulge in emotions).
Photographs tell a different story, of a small beautiful house, and funny neighbors, and my four year old daughter laughing as she made a snowman. I wish that I had access to those memories, but it is sufficient to know that life did in fact continue, that I did not succumb to the looming depression that could have exterminated any hope for the future.
In fact, I did not let myself fall apart until much later, when I was safe. The deepest gloom I’ve let invade my life was definitely triggered by external events – 9/11, a broken tailbone, a stolen manuscript, work woes. But more significantly: I had people nearby who wanted to take care of me, who would make sure that falling apart did not translate to suicide or worse (and in my opinion there are worse choices). One dark winter in Portland featured the most wretched emotions I’ve ever encountered. But I had friends and family nearby. I knew there was help if I needed it.
Not that this would have been obvious to most observers – Byron and possibly Gabriel being the exceptions. I do not complain, or protest, or even talk about problems that might make sense to other people. I do not need assistance when traumatized – I am an expert at crisis management.
The things that I truly had no capacity to cope with were all positive – friends, community, extravagantly good times all hurt when first encountered. Back then I had no relative ability to appreciate the brilliant life I had created from scratch. Understanding that fact was frightening, because it meant that I had to change in a fundamental way I had never considered.
Disease and poverty conditioned me to anticipate and accept pain as my daily reality. At the same time: I have a good mother, so I am a good mother. Taking care of children is easy. Friendship, fun, other kinds of love? Scary!
It took assiduous effort to live in a new way, and the whole thing has been horribly painful at times. People are messy, and emotions are risky. Learning to take what was on offer did not lead to greater certainty; falling in love with a city mysteriously translated to the choice to leave, a short distance at first and then all the way to the other side of the world.
This feels right; my friends, my home, allowed me to figure out that I’m the sort of person who keeps moving on.
While I miss elements of each discarded life I get a huge thrill out of every new adventure. I am endlessly thankful for all that has happened, good and bad, and quite curious to see what is next.
The other afternoon I found myself in a London hotel room having a food fight with Jeffrey – I bounced cinnamon jelly beans off his head and he scored a few into my cleavage and I fell about giggling – not realizing until hours later that it has been nineteen long years since I engaged in such antics.
Why? Because until, oh, Monday, if anyone threw something at me I would have had flashbacks to the blinding white light that took over my brain when the car I was driving at age seventeen was struck, not once but twice, at high speed on a rural highway.
My startle reflex has not vanished. Earlier in the week Josh walked up behind me without warning at dinner, and when he leaned in to whisper in my ear I shrieked. Then I looked at his shocked face and dissolved in laughter.
This new ability to play even as I feel the same complicated neurological response is a change, a calibration – and quite welcome!
