settled

Two nights ago I couldn't sleep. After returning late from an improv show at iO I was stuck thinking and rethinking about everything that had happened before, during, and after the show. Since I'm moving to Los Angeles in about a month all I've done lately is reflect on my years in Chicago. I had a few things to do on my checklist before I could leave here. I've done them all, and now I'm more than ready. But it's been all the things and people between those bullet points that have made Chicago everything. I landed here by default, but I chose to stay for as long as I have because I loved it.

All night Monday I was up going through drawers in my bedroom, clearing out what I assumed would be junk, but what I found instead was treasure. I found countless notes, cards and keepsakes from nights out. These were things I knew I would want to look at again before I boxed them in an old shoebox. I know myself well enough to know that these are the things I'll want to look back at when feeling low, maybe in LA, maybe wherever I go after that.

One of my favorite little things I found was a piece of white computer paper that I had written some thoughts on one night while at my parents house. There were existential questions like, "Why are we here?" and hopefully non-predictive statements such as, "Eventually, I will be broke," accompanied by an arrow pointing to the name: Peter Francis Geracy, Illinois' premier bankruptcy attorney. I can't decide if I meant PFG will say this or if he's whom I should call about going broke in the future. Both seem like viable options. But, what I liked most about this note I'd unintentionally written to myself was this poem:

They never loved you
I never loved you
I loved you, but I didn't
I did as much as I could

-and I was timid.
I was nervous. and I acted like we were new. and then it was old.
we were old. and we weren't supposed to be together
-and now I'm scared that I'll be alone and you were it.
and now I'm alone, but I never settled
Is that better?

-I wasted your time.
-I wasted your time.

It was followed with this:

If I were me right now I'd run. I'd be fine, until right before. My heart would race like crazy and I'd convince myself it wasn't nerves -- until I'd realize that would mean I'd have a heart condition. I have it all prepared. I have it played out in my mind. Why does my body convince itself it's not ready. Not prepared. No one else up here is really all that special. Every day I think -- I could do that. But here I am failing at the one thing I want. It'd be sort of funny to want to be a banker. And every time you count money you can't count because money made you so nervous. Living in general would be difficult. Money is such a big part of life. It really is.

There's this constant push to be moving forward, and I love that push. I love that drive, that fire, to pursue life fully despite nerves, despite fear, despite obstacles. It's a funny thing to never feel settled, and perhaps it's less in the destination, but more in the people where you're settled. Once you find your people, that's where the comfort is. So for me, I'm settled in Chicago. I'm settled in Iowa. I'm settled in the U.P. I'm settled in Lake Forest. I'm settled in San Francisco. I'm settled in Los Angeles. I'm settled all over because everyone I love is out there pursuing their lives, as I am.

So no, I did not waste anyone's time and no one wasted mine.

glassy eyed.

The other day I found my childhood diary. Yes, the one I had faithfully written in for five years from ages 7 to 12. As a kid I remember spending a lot of time alone hiding in the playroom's small walk-in closet, living like a hermit listening to the sounds of my siblings playing together while I retreated into my separate imagination. I created a whole world in there. A whole world by myself that Larry, Colleen, Sean, Timmy and Kevin couldn't disrupt. Thinking about it now, there's something about loneliness that has always plagued me. And however cliche it certainly is, I remember how much I wanted to be paid attention to as a child. I remember how accurate the term crush was every day of junior high. I remember thinking the neighborhood girls were snobby and that at heart, we had nothing in common anyway; I could never bring myself to fake it. Now 15 years later not so much has changed. I'd rather actually be alone than feel alone with people who happen to be next to me. Maybe everyone's like this. Maybe not.

There's something about loneliness that has buried itself in my heart. I don't share my feelings regularly. Sometimes I feel like an emotionally vacant person, like a dad in the 50s, like Don Draper. But the thing is about dads and Don Draper is they do have feelings, a lot of feelings and they're wandering lost just like the rest of us. There's this constant struggle of not wanting to show our cards because if you do then you are open to the elements. And somehow, when the moment strikes and you actually find yourself in that moment of vulnerability, you get stung. Every time you vow to keep it locked up tighter next time, don't share, don't care, don't don't don't, somehow someone comes along, and magically they get that guard to come down, and right when you think you're safe -- you just...aren't. Perhaps we're meant to be breakable, but to what end?

Growing up my family mockingly teased me by calling me glassy-eyes, referring to the way my big brown eyes watered uncontrollably whenever I would actually express how I felt. I would try so hard to keep my emotions at bay to no avail. A slight shiny, wet film would overcome my eyes just waiting until those heavy tears couldn't help but spill over. Now, I attempt to close off entirely, if not by neglecting a good cry, at least doing it at the AMC River East some random Thursday morning during a showing of whatever I want to see by myself that day when no one can see how much I care. Perhaps a stranger will see me in the dark responding disproportionately to the sad parts in Woody Allen's Blue Jasmine, but that's ok.

One of my life-friends, a compatriot in not wanting to need others, recently returned from a long, long walk. A 32 day walk spanning 800 km along the Northern reaches of Spain. The Camino de Compostelle. She's been a person seeking adventure and finding it as long as I have known her, which is now over a decade. Reading her entries reflecting on her journey and after talking last weekend over french toast, she has come to a place of serenity and openness that I have never quite known. This particular post struck me. I was overcome with how much there is here. I didn't cry, but I wanted to:

There was no other choice. It was clear. 

There is strength in weakness. 

There is beauty in needing people and reaching out your hands for help. 

We weren´t made to walk alone.

It's so easy to become swept up in what it is to be lonely, to assume everyone else is a part of something, to feel as if you're on the outside. It's so easy to be the wallflower sitting in your apartment on New Years, or any Friday in September, listening to the sound of life in the next building over. But even if all those things are true, even if 5-year-old me was that way, that doesn't mean 27-year-old me has to be.