Return to Sender

Finding my way back

I knew the choice I made to leave New York was one that wasn’t going to end well. But I’ve never been one to make things easy for myself. An emotional masochist, for the plot if nothing else. From the opposite coast, along a cold and unforgiving ocean, I’ve been on the lam. From no one really. No one but myself. As I began to lose control of the narrative, I couldn’t stop myself from watching with horror and amusement, my own dissent.

I followed a man to his hometown, in pursuit of his dreams. Enabling my own avoidance. I was unhappy at home, and headed nowhere good. At least, that’s what I had decided. I was drinking too much, doing too many drugs, sleeping with too many terrible men. Spiraling. Really, it was I who was no good. Broken, intense, emotional. And tired–so tired–of having to be strong.

He promised me a better life. Hardness was the only life I knew, and I so desperately longed for softness. I deserved that, right? An adventure, he swore. A temporary stop along the route until we reached our final destination. There was a glimmer of safety in his company, and I told myself that the nagging pit in my stomach was just fear. I had never lived anywhere else. Somehow staying put seemed worse. I was begging for asylum, and he needed to be needed. He was the opposite of everything. Normal, stable, reserved. I deserved that, definitely. 

In my new city, I looked for signs of recognition. I searched for morsels of connection. Eagerly, I dreamt of companionship. But no one spoke the same language as me. They stared at me, eyes wide, and asked if I loved living here. My answer would wipe the pacificity clean off their faces. I fucking hated it. New York was too much, not right for raising children, this place was much better, much prettier. How could I disagree? Six months, one year, three years, six years… my friends would ask when we would finally leave, and eventually I ran out of lies to tell them. I ran out of lies to tell myself.

Things fell apart. I’m not supposed to be here. 

Portland only exacerbated all things I believed were wrong about me: too loud, too aggressive. My words fell on silent ears. My affections, thwarted. My culture, othered. The man who promised me a better life, forged ahead while I trailed behind, preserved only as an afterthought. I felt imprisoned by the mistake I had made. Invisible and unwanted, too scared to know what to do or ask for help.

Motherhood made it worse. I had the terrible realization I had made the same choice my mother did: I had bargained for an upgraded life I could never fully assimilate to. I had shrunk myself to fit into a world I was never meant to belong to, because I believed anything was better than what I came from. Far from home I realized how much I loved being from New York, despite the childhood I had. At its best my upbringing was vibrant, authentic. Rich with color, sounds, people. People exactly like me. Flawed, but full of life. Maybe raising children was better everywhere else. Maybe living slowly is more ideal. But maybe also, there really was something good about me. 

Things crumbled. I don’t belong here. 

The more time passed, the more dim my light became. I felt empty. I was used to feeling lonely but the flavor of this aloneness was an unusual sour. I was isolated. I didn’t see myself in my reflection: my face looked like someone else was wearing a mask of my likeness. Life felt so much harder than it ever had before, how could that be? I could never seem to find my footing. “Black hole of bad luck” was my running joke about Portland. Only I stopped laughing when I spent a year of my early 30’s in and out of the hospital, carving away at my body, with no one by my side. The cold gray skies were closing in on me and the promise of course-correcting my timeline seemed more and more out of reach.

I had finally hinted at divorce a year and half before I made the decision to end my marriage. It slipped out slowly and quietly until I found myself on that operating room table. My therapist told me I could choose to leave everything behind me, not just my breasts but everything in my past: my shitty youth, my poor coping mechanisms, and this life that just would not let me live. I could wake up and start over, if I wanted. I sobbed uncontrollably as I counted backwards from ten, had I run this far away only to die alone? The desire for freedom began to scream from inside me. 

Things went up in flames. I refuse to stay like this.

Burning everything down is intoxicating, cleansing. The fires of my breaking point were destructive–yes. But only of the obstacles that kept me trapped in the wrong/right place at the wrong/right time. I didn’t know what would happen afterwards, but whatever it would be, it would be different. Ceremoniously, I lit my own match and smoldered. Down to ash. But the ground beneath did not scorch. Unobstructed, the seedlings of a second chance at life found their way to the surface. They sprout and vine, in directions I can’t always predict, but the roots are strong.

Starting over was and remains quite difficult. Single motherhood was not the cycle I had intended to repeat. (I never meant to be this much of my mother’s daughter) I have floundered, albeit not nearly as much as I have flourished. I bore witness to the darkest parts of me, held space for the ugliest of truths. Portland is still here, damp and weird, with me in it. But I’ve finally found people who see me. My light returned, the brightest it’s ever been. Warm and resilient. Really, it’s more that I started to see myself. And maybe it’s that I finally have room to grow.

It’s been several years now–life is still catching up, but it’s my life, at least. I’m making it up as I go, but there’s hope in the mundane of simply existing exactly as I am. Not in need of fixing, just some understanding. The universe conspired, too. I met a person who is a lot like me. Loud, a little aggressive, excessive hand gestures. A tender remnant of New York, all the way out here. He’s not promising me a better life. Instead, we’re writing a new story together. Flawed, but full of love.

Turns out reconstructing your life is a lot like reconstructing your breasts: first it all has to go away. Cut off, discarded. A scrap pile of toxic parts that were once you. There is very little left to work with. The inbetween is messy, painful, and kind of unsightly. (If you’re me–which I am–it wouldn’t be a journey without a touch of necrosis in the mix… for the plot, remember?) The final product, well… it’s never really what it was. Somewhat imperceptible to the casual observer, but stripped down the scars remain, evidence of all the pain you had to endure. Forever changed, there’s no going back.

Perhaps my radical act of escapism was divinely guided, in the end. Maybe it had to be hard for it to be right. Maybe I had to lose everything, myself included. I can’t say I know for sure how my story would go had I never left New York, all I do know is that it no longer matters. That timeline has been laid to rest.

The truth is: in any place, at any time, I would still be searching for home. But not the home that's out there. The one that lies within.

I think I’m getting closer.