I moved here six months and one day ago. It feels like both a lifetime ago and yesterday. It feels like I both belong and am lost. It feels like I love it and hate it. It doesn't feel like home, but it feels familiar. Like when you go shopping and try something on, and even though it's a great fit, you just could never see yourself wearing it. But if you bought it, others would tell you how good it looked.
This ride isn't smooth. I never thought it would be. To be honest, I didn't think much about it. Seriously, I didn't sit for eons weighing pros and cons. I thought about it, we talked about it, and within the hour decided it was worth it. I said yes, and rolled the ball down the hill. I mean, I think all the time, about everything, and way too much (as evidenced by some of these blogs) but my focus in coming here was singular. It hasn't remained so. Had I have agonized over coming, I'd have stayed. But I was ready to leap. I just didn't know the fall would be this long. When you leap, even if you haven't looked, you expect to land. The drop is quick, and land is the expectation. That your feet will touch down. Somewhere.
You expect that the ground will be familiar, if foreign.
I never really landed. Not in the way I expected. I mean, here I am, six months in with a stable job, an agent, friends, and work, but I still don't feel settled. Still not feeling like my day to day has any meaning, even though I have things now that offer value. It'll change when Catherine is here, and truly that may be the only solution. But maybe not. I'm a mouse trapped in my own experiment running the same maze with varied results, not even trying to get faster, though I'm getting better at running it. It's a strange feeling. I'm normally a hustle person. I still am, but I'm underwater, splashing a lot but not quite moving.
I just booked my second job out here. I'm really pleased with that and I celebrate the victory of it. There is something out here for me. There is a reason to be here. But of course the devil on my shoulder asks is there enough. Is the work you will get satisfying. Is there happiness here in the work. Is there happiness for both of us. I don't know. I couldn't know.
I came out here to get my reps up. To be more consistently seen. To get settled in the room, and to get more opportunity. To book some stuff and hopefully start playing in a world where there was more room for creative collaboration, for playing and exploring.
But I knew I wouldn't land there.
So part of this, the free fall, the uncertainty, is self-inflicted.
I can choose to create the existence or experience it and see what it allows me. But if I don't choose, actively, I'll be dragged around by my collar and end up who knows where - maybe somewhere amazing, maybe somewhere terrible.
Or worse, maybe somewhere that's just okay.
I know it's on me. I know it always has been.
I know some of thes obstacles have been real, and some illusory.
I know it looks brave. I know it feels nuts. I know it's not a big deal. I know it's huge.
I know it's on me.
Maybe that's the hardest part.
I often envy religious people. Actually.
The faith that things are in someone's hands is very comforting. That there's someone who's got you. When I used to feel lost I'd talk to my dad, as though he could fix it, and ask him to open doors, or close them. I did it all the time. I could pretend that we had a connection that we didn't, and that he'd take care of things - the way we expect a dad to be able to. But I'm not religious, and I didn't actually believe it did anything. Not spiritually at least, but it made me feel better to think I was leaving the big stuff with him, wherever he is, and that I could do the minutia. I could iron on the details and ace the day to day, knowing that he paved out the path. I pretended he had a hotline to someone in charge of the spirit world - he was the type of man who would - and that was enough in a small way. It's not anymore.
Talking to him now doesn't comfort me the same way, and I don't think my blog makes it to 'heaven'. We haven't spoken in a long time. These days, I just talk to myself.
Because it's in my hands. And I'm on my own.
And in truth I know I always have been. We all are.
Maybe that's the hardest part.