There and Back Again: Why I'm Coming Home
“I’m moving to New York City,” I said, walking down the sidewalk of my small tourist town at 11 o’clock at night.
“You keep saying that…” the actor replied.
It was the summer of 2013, one and a half years
after my college graduation. I was a starving artist in the recession, and so
returned home for survival. I never planned on staying that long, but facing
reality is hard when you don’t have to. And, in fairness to me, I kept getting
work at the local theatres that would stave my plans to leave for several
months. It was gratifying to have them beg me to come onboard, my reliability
and low value of my time irreplaceable. Plus, I enjoyed it.
Something carnally bothered me about not being
believed, and ever since I can remember, I have been determined to finish what
I set out to do. I suppose it has to do with people’s tendency to write me off,
or my mother’s insistence that because I had a fibbing problem at three, I’m
probably lying now.
I was procrastinating, that was true. I only knew
that I didn’t want to live in Jackson. I didn’t think I’d want to be a New
Yorker for the next fifty years. At the time, the only things I wanted out of
life was to write and have a family. Be warm. Not have to shave ice off my car
in the morning. I didn’t particularly want to raise children in an urban
environment, and I could write from anywhere.
After that conversation, I met someone. He was
Australian and intelligent. Shy and introverted, a reader who was in the middle
of The Wheel of Time series. I wasn’t
into the bad boy look, not a fan of a smoker or tattoos, yet something about
his mix of masculinity and femininity and geekishness—he liked cars and theatre
and A Game of Thrones—appeal to me.
He stopped short when he first saw me, and I felt intensely flattered by the
way he looked at me. He was a talented actor, and as I observed from afar I saw a lot of
pain and sensitivity. I don’t know why I was mesmerized with him, but I was. I
remember saying to myself before I asked him out, “What’s the worst that could
happen?” Funny.
After an exciting first two weeks, he made me
miserable. He ignored me. Claimed to be busy. Jerked me around in a way I’d
never seen someone treat another before, so I gave him the benefit of the doubt
and listened to his excuses. When we were together he was happy. Excited to see
me, showed me off to his friends. When apart, it was like I didn’t exist. I did
think another woman might be in the mix except the small town status and the
fact that we went to all his haunts made it seem hard to believe.
I’ve said in the past I didn’t want to go into the
events because it’s not just my story. Those of you who have been following me
have seen some emotional turmoil and pretty severe anger in what followed for
the next three years. The end results were me in Australia, me considering what
I really wanted out of life, recognizing that I would have to give up so much
to be with the man that I loved.
A part of me was deeply upset that I had never lived
in New York City like I had wanted. Yes, some of it had to do with telling
people. Some of it had to do with the fact that I always thought it was an option.
There were many things, I’d come to realize, that by moving to the “Loneliest
City on Earth” as Perth is lovingly called, I had limited myself from.
When I left my ex and returned to Wyoming with no
money, dog, or house, without a financially sustainable career and a pile of
unpublished manuscripts that may never see the light of day, I was at the
lowest point in my life. It wasn’t that I felt my worse… I just didn’t feel
anything at all. It occurred to me that all of the things I thought I would have,
all of the things I thought would make sense over time, might never come to
fruition. I’ve always struggled to feel crushes or infatuation, and the deep,
irrational love that I had for him was something I didn’t think I was capable
of. One year later and I realize that I may never feel it again, especially
with my shut-in lifestyle and intense anger at the obsess-and-discard attitude
prevalent in dating these days.
The decision to move to New York as soon as
possible was based off my complete loss of desire. I didn’t want to be limited.
I wanted the world to be open to me. I wanted something interesting in my life.
I wanted people to take me seriously. On that same note, despite wanting all
these things, I at the same time wanted nothing specific. What was I looking
for in a partner? What place could I find peers who would inspired me?
Collaborate with me? Share the need for challenge and risk while having the
savviness of when I’ve taken it too far?
The fabric store closed down. The art supplies
were gone. The music store didn’t have a golden E string.
New York was filled with aspiring artists. It had
people of all walks of life. It had every job imaginable. It was busy,
energetic, alive. I didn’t know what I was looking for, so it seemed like the
best place to be.
I spent the first few months stressed, sending my
resume out into the void, beginning my querying process seriously for the first
time in fifteen years. I felt alone and worried about money, but optimistic
just the same. I got my job and relief washed over me. I met up with friends. I
got into a long distance relationship with a younger man who, despite being the
carbon copy of my ex a decade removed, actually enabled me to come to terms
with the condescension and inadequacies my ex made me feel. This time,
when—unbeknownst to me—another woman caused his odd behavior, I reacted to his
emotional distance and noncommittal ways by writing him off and moving on.
There was no satisfaction when I found that the girl in question rebuked in him
a humiliating way, but there was the ability to forgive, and a sense of
empowerment that I didn’t put up with his bullshit even lacking all the
information.
That’s where things started to change.
After online dating in which I met some nice men
who didn’t know to brush their teeth before a date, regardless of how casual,
and long hours of bemoaning the massive amounts of selfishness a person can
bring down on someone, I began to acknowledge not only that I may never have a
family, it wouldn’t be as big of a deal. This year, my goals have drastically
changed. I went from desiring stability and security to seeing the benefits of
freedom. Both my prior relationships were merely emotional vacuums with little
reward. When the younger man came to see me in the city, anything romantic he
attempted was ruined by his conditional attitude afterwards. “Next time it’s
your turn!” he’d make a point to tell me, even though I’d beyond demonstrated
my generosity. The quid pro quo attitude that men presented to me tended to
ignore the more subtle gestures, often more difficult and time consuming, I did
for them, while giving no appreciation towards any of the grand gestures where
I went out of my way to make him feel secure and wanted. While being in a
relationship prior to all of this felt rewarding and stimulating, today I
associate it with being responsible for another being who will often resent
you.
I have wanderlust, I realized.
I love New York City. In the last couple of months
my social anxiety has dispersed into thin air. I still have my awkward moments
and tend to retreat into my mind instead of acknowledging people in stressful
or embarrassing situations, yet the actual act of making eye contact, joking
with a stranger in the elevator, and just being around people in general is a
thousand times easier. I’m not a fan of making small talk any more than I was
before, but I don’t feel like the same intrusion that I did just a year prior.
I like how I can walk down the street and get
milk. I like the people here and their general attitude. I have found
multitudes of aspiring artists who seem to understand my creative curiosity.
It’s expensive, but when you don’t drink, it’s doable. I like dog walking. I
like the animals themselves, the sunshine and the exercise. I like being on my
own with my thoughts.
The atmosphere is wonderful and exciting. But I
feel a little trapped.
Being without a car is hard, even in a city with
good transportation. Taxis make me instantaneously motion sick, plus the
expense. The subway is typically fine, but unreliable, limited, requiring a
great deal of walking. And when you’re schlepping something back from downtown,
it becomes immediately apparent just how far five miles really is.
My belief that things would be more accessible to
me here was incorrect. In Jackson, it would take me an hour one way to drive to
the closest store to get batting for a quilt. In New York? Still a forty-five
minute long trip, and instead of getting in your car, putting on cruise
control, and listening to an audio book, you’re walking fifteen minutes to the
subway, fifteen minutes from it, riding on a subway car that smells like grime,
squashed in between two people and trying not to get motion sick as you read
your ebook. Whatever you get, you have to carry it back, and you can’t just do
all your errands at once.
Oh. And you actually might have an incredibly hard
time finding what you’re looking for. Partially because all the store names are
different out here, but they don’t have many “Walmarts” or superstores to just
walk into grab all the items you need and leave. The batting was ridiculously
difficult to come by. I called and walked into numerous stores before I got the
only kind offered, paid an arm and a leg for it, and was recommended to try
buying it online.
If I wanted to buy things online, I’d live in
Wyoming.
A big reason I wanted to move to NYC was the
theatre. I enjoy producing, and I wanted to get in on networking with a wide
variety of artists. However, since my producer time in Los Angeles, things have
changed. I’ve learned how one successful project does not make the next easier,
I have little desire to commute down to the theatre district every day for a
show, and I’m broke, exhausted, and don’t have the time or money to dedicate myself
to a piece like I used to. I don’t feel inspired to produce right now, and
getting the point where I had the resources to do so would take a few years of
actively spending most of my time in the theatre. Right now, I feel more
inspired to make my novels into something and not so excited for the plays.
I also came here to take lessons that would be
offered to me… except I don’t have any money. Yes, I would love to do stage
combat, but it’s over a grand a month, and I don’t have that. My new habit in
the violin already is emptying my wallet.
Jackson has a wonderful dance company, and other
classes that I haven’t taken advantage of. Why did I need to come here?
But the decision was made for me when I started
watching Girlboss, and subsequently
bought the autobiographical book by Sophia Amoruso.
I have been bemoaning how my starving artist
lifestyle and wanderlust makes my resume look like crap. All over the place,
switching jobs every two years or less, even though I have the best
recommendations you can ask for, I look like a flight risk. Which, I am.
As I stated, last summer I had little to show for
myself. Skills, yes, but more or less useless ones in terms of benefiting
society. Anything I was good at would only be profitable for my own business or
as a teacher. I left my puppy with my ex. I left our beautiful (rented) house
in Australia. I left my image of our life together. We had plans for a wedding,
names for kids, a future. All of that was gone.
A few months ago I got a call from my old job
offering me a title and a salary.
“I hear you’re coming back!” my manager said after
I had merely mentioned it to a select few individuals.
What the…? Goddamn
small town… I muttered to myself.
“If you want your job back, we’ll make it worth
your while!”
Out in the Wild, Wild West, my parents also had a
piece of property I would one day inherit and my dad, a contractor, suggested
that if I come back, he’d help me build a small house on it. The promise of having
a home—even if I ultimately didn’t decide to live in it—perked me up. It would
be a potential permeant space, but not only that, it would make getting a dog
in the next few years possible.
After my stint in Ireland, I’ve been making
expensive plans to go to Morocco (which changed to Cambodia), as well as any
other place I can find a means to. Traveling breaks the monotony of my life and
creates good memories, along with a feeling of living my days to the fullest.
So with all that promise, the ads for Girlboss hit me right at the best
moment.
Girlboss
tells the true story about Amoruso who started her own ebay company selling
vintage clothing by having the right eye for style and showmanship. She began
it out of necessity, needing funds to survive. It reminded me of Amanda
Hocking, whose success as an author started when she self-published her book to
afford tickets to some concert.
I wanted to do that. I wanted to see more funds
come from my writing and sewing and artwork. I wanted the freedom to travel, to
create, and to do things that I’ve always wanted without being tied down to a
job. If I’m not going to have my husband and children, then I’m going to take
advantage of the silver lining. At first I wrote it off as a pipedream of
everyone’s, but I’ve spent years honing my presentational skills that I’ve
never really tested out. Not only did Amoruso’s success make it seem possible,
a good friend of mine from college recently quit her job due to her successful
Etsy business.
I decided to move back to Wyoming on a whim. It
came in June after a coworker went out of his way to lecture me on how he
thought I should have handle a certain situation. I didn’t disagree with him
necessarily. Yet, his drastic oversimplification and unfamiliarity of what
occurred, his melodramatic way of speaking, and his need to spend a
condescendingly long amount of time on something that was more or less obvious
in hindsight pissed me off just enough for me to consider what I really wanted
to do come my lease’s end in September. He was tactless on a somewhat trivial
matter that I’d already learned from. I didn’t really plan on quitting, knowing
it was a temporary problem, but once I began to analyze the possibilities, it
just felt right. If you know me, rarely does anything “just feel right.”
Without the assumed children to support, my
starving artist lifestyle has a longer stainability. I don’t need to plant roots when it’s just me. I
don’t need as much financial security. I am much more flexible in what I have
to do to survive. I had previously considered that if I’m going to live in a
small room with no money to stay at home and write, then wouldn’t it be better
to take a part-time job somewhere cheaper and give myself more creative free
time? The location in Wyoming offers a ridiculous amount of space for a lot
less money, giving me a better ability to create. More to the point, I’ll have
my cat back and the potential of getting a dog on my own. I’ll be able to set
up a workstation. In Wyoming, more of my money can go to what I really care
about. I can take classes. I can travel. I can buy better equipment. I can
start looking into marketing and professional editors to help me push my work
further. I’ll be closer to friends and family, and the limitation I felt there is
smaller now that I realize being in the city doesn’t necessarily mean things
are available to you.
I want to have creative space, funds for my actual
career, the ability to play my violin when I want (without the practice mute),
my cat, a real fridge, an oven, a functioning toilet.
Unfortunately, I don’t think I want to live in
Jackson forever. It’s cold and isolated. But it’s not the end of the world if,
in two years from now, I decide to flee again. Not if I turn focus to less
conventional means of financial freedom.
I love NYC. Coming here has done more positive
things for me than any other decision I’ve made in adulthood. I feel stronger,
wiser, and freer. But it also helped me realize that perhaps I really don’t
want to be tied down to an expensive apartment in one singular city.
If you liked this post, want to support, contact, stalk, or argue with me, please consider...
Liking Charley Daveler on Facebook
Following What's Worse than Was
