I’m not a psychiatrist, but I’m pretty sure I don’t need to be to realize that I am mentally unstable…and that might just be putting it nicely. I was trying to verbalize this entire predicament, or maybe syndrome, if you will, to an old friend tonight.
Imagine the worst commitment phobe you’ve ever dated. You know, they were way too scared they were going to meet someone better, or got bored super easily, or just plain ran at the mere thought of settling down. It’s like that, except with EVERYTHING. Not just relationships.
I have moved 5 times in the last 5 years. My current living situation is without a lease. This makes me feel pretty comfortable. Knowing that I don’t have to be in any specific place for any specific amount of time. Knowing that if I decided I wanted to I could be on my way to wherever, whenever.
There are days when I wake up and I find myself googling real estate for sale in McHenry County, and contemplating setting down some roots where my family has had roots, literally and metaphorically, for the last century. Then there are days when I begin making Craigslist ads to sell all of my earthly possessions and trade them in for an Airstream, or a cabin in some remote part of Montana, or a shack on a beach somewhere south of the equator, or a loft apartment in a bustling city, or a double wide in Tulsa. And then, there are the mornings where I wake up in the comfort of my own bed, with my Shoots McGoots warming my feet, and I think, “man, this is alright.”
I have held 7 jobs in the last 5 years. Granted some of them were longer term than others, and some of them overlapped in places, and some of them have been good and some of them have been awful, but they’ve all had one thing in common…with the exception of my current position, I’ve quit all of them. I’ve never been fired. At some point in time, they all just felt too comfortable. Too…natural. And I don’t think that there is anything natural about losing your entire sense of smell because of the olfactory overload that is a candle store, or lifting and moving large pieces of furniture on a daily basis, or coming home smelling like fish, or orange spandex in general, or working 70 plus hours a week.
I distinctly remember writing a previous blog, probably two years ago, expressing my desire for some sort of a job that indulged my restless spirit, while still allowing me to remain rooted where my friends and family and the things I love most are. And it would seem that, that is EXACTLY what I got. While still residing in my hometown, I’ve managed to travel to 7 states in the last two months, which should be more than ample for even the biggest wanderlust. But, somehow, not only am I exhausted and unsatisfied, but also find myself imagining the grass greener on the other side. I wonder what would happen if I pursued my passion of writing, and ran away to explore the south and write a book while getting lost in the jungle of swampland, blues music, and barbeque smoke. Other days it seems like re-applying to a university for the hundreth time, and finally just settling on a major, like broadcasting or journalism could be my first step towards aquiring my own Bourdain-esque travel series. Then there are the times when I fantascize even crazier, perhaps just baking pies and making jams and selling them at roadside stands, or maybe selling flowers; that might be nice.
Then there is that one lingering thought, that is still more constant than the others. Even that isn’t safe. There are moments when I am, well, wherever I am, usually in a hotel bed that is cold on one side, and I am just helpless to missing you. Missing how easy we were, missing how much one half-cocked smile from you could make a shit day a little better, or how waking up next to you in the morning somehow guaranteed everything would go downhill, but somehow I didn’t mind. And I think to myself, or maybe say out loud after sighing, with no one around to hear my words to the imaginary you, “Can’t you just figure it out? That regardless of distance, space, or time, you are it for me. There is no moving on, or walking away, so let’s stop wasting time and make it work. Let’s make some memories while we are young and pretty and dumb, so that when we are old and gray and wise we have some snapshots in our photo album, some things to reminisce about. That might be nice. That might be worth looking into. Don’t you think? I think about giving it all up. everything but you. my job. this town that pulls me in the way the moon pulls the tide. these people that I love dearly. the place I lived out my childhood. the place every memory, good and bad, I have is linked to. I mean pretty much my whole life that I’ve built for myself. I mean don’t let it go to your head or anything. I think about giving it all up for me too. but you are the only other one. So that means something, doesn’t it?”
Then there are days when I keep the company of other men. And I don’t compare them to you anymore. I am just with them, and it settles just fine with me. There are days that I resent you for being immature and foolish, and blind and dumb, and too emotionally unavailable and too crazy. There are days that I curse you. There are days that I think I might’ve been better off if we’d never have met, or maybe if you would have just kept your mouth shut.
Those days are the hardest. Those days are the days I want to run the most.
