Socially Awkward // One
Living as an Artist, or Something
For (almost) the past year, I did what I had set out to do. I got a great nanny job that paid well, with benefits. I worked hard. And I burned myself out. I didn’t set out for that last part but it happened. Now, as I move towards transitioning out of my nanny job, I am a gooey mess of possibility.
I live in one of the most expensive cities in the world, and in the United States. I’ve been asking myself— do I want to stay in Seattle, my hometown? And many answers rise to the surface, all contradictory. Yes, of course; it’s one of the most beautiful places in the world. No, of course not, there’s no way I can afford to live here without sacrificing parts of myself.
I came to Seattle wanting to settle down, but I didn’t ask myself what I wanted to settle into. What kind of life did I want? One where I could afford to buy things? One where I have my own space (which isn’t really my own, because I can only afford to rent)? Truthfully, I can’t settle down in Seattle and I may never be able to settle down here. Many of the historic markers of my childhood have been replaced with skyscrapers. My history here, the history of my mother’s suicide; maybe that’s the reason I was called here. To live right next to that. To see if I could. And I can. I can look straight at it, and know I have survived.
There is the question of community, which I longed to create, and there is the answer: I have made some friends, but there is no community. There is still a possibility for a community, yes. But when I know I will eventually have to leave, what does that community mean?
I find myself where I have found myself so often: wondering what I need to do in order to support myself as a writer, to give myself space and time, while also finding community.
Living this life may involve some unconventionality. I may not stay here.
I am in the privileged position of having choices. I can stay in Seattle and nanny a little bit and ease my way into freelancing, or I can leave Seattle and house-sit and save money and apply to residencies, teaching jobs, and doctoral programs. The latter calls to me because it doesn’t involve paying rent or utilities. The former calls to me for its routine and stability. I also have the option of a hybrid, where I sublet my apartment here for periods of time and go off house-sitting.
I’ll figure it out.
What I know right now is that I have so much work to do, as a writer, and the past year has taken a lot out of me. Caring full-time for twins and parents during a pandemic is no joke. Any writing I did outside of nannying was a huge accomplishment. If I am lucky, I will have a pub date for my book in a couple months, and I feel my insides churning with ideas and energy. I want to create. I want to steady my focus and live inside my life.
I remember once, long ago, someone asked me what I was running away from when I told them about my life. As if moving, as if exploring, was a kind of running away. The question wounded me and stayed with me. Was I running away from something? Maybe. Maybe I was running away from the pain that existed inside of me, from my mom’s death, from my childhood. But one doesn’t have to physically go somewhere to run away. One can run away while living in the same place for decades. Running away is something that happens inside of us, not outside.
I’ve been thinking about the kind of thinking that social media encourages, a kind of thinking I’m already susceptible to. A thinking that looks in rather than out. A gaze that positions me in the bodies and minds of unknown others, society, friends, enemies (haha I don’t have enemies). I learned to look at myself through this gaze; the male gaze, the capitalist gaze, the cruel and critical gaze of my mother, the absent gaze of my father, the gazes of the children and teenagers at all the schools I went to when I was younger. I learned to see myself through their eyes, to be conscious of their looking and adjust myself accordingly.
Social media encourages this kind of consciousness, this kind of inhabiting what’s outside of myself and perceiving myself through the eyes of others, but it is a false gaze because I will never fully be able to see myself through the eyes of others nor will I be able to appease others or satisfy those who may be watching from the outside. I have always feared judgement and at the same time been unstoppably loud, fierce, and open. I’m a double Leo with a Scorpio moon— two wide open doors and then a strong instinct for shame, for fear of vulnerability.
The more I understand this about myself the easier it becomes to reject the idea that I need to be some way for anyone else.
The thing about being willing to be vulnerable, being willing to be open about my processes and my insecurities, is that it can make other people uncomfortable because a lot of us are inherently uncomfortable with vulnerability. Many of us have been taught to hide ourselves. Many of us are unkind to ourselves, or have trouble asking for help. The impulse for jealousy or disgust or annoyance is strong when we see others doing what we secretly wish we could do.
I remember a couple years ago reading a Dear Sugar letter, where Cheryl Strayed and Steve Almond respond to a question about grief:
Dear Sugars,
My fiance's grandfather died last year, and his family is still reeling from the loss. He died at the age of 82, after battling cancer for the better part of two years. His family believes deeply in healing through faith. My fiance believes in science and does not hold with his family's evangelical beliefs on this subject. He said his goodbyes, so when his grandfather died, he did not feel anything was unresolved.
His mother firmly believed up until the very end that a miracle could save her father's life, and she has not taken his death well. She is very public with her grief and regularly makes long Facebook posts about how she is suffering, inciting people to comfort her. She expects an involved and ever-ready network of people to support her.
I get it, because here's the problem, Sugars: my dad died ten years ago, when I was 19. He died on the last day of my freshman year of college. He was going to move me out of my dorm the next day, but he had a brain aneurysm rupture and died. I never got to say goodbye. He didn't have an opportunity to put his affairs in order. His death was sudden, traumatic and life-altering, and because of this, my pity for my future mother-in-law is stunted. I feel deep resentment when she brings up what her father should have been here to do. In these moments, my heart goes numb. He had a long good life and made peace with everyone in his family.
Sugars, how do I navigate this? How do I stop being such a cold, hard bitch? My fiance's mother is aware that I lost my father very young and unexpectedly, but I'm not open with her about the fact that I feel my experience with loss was worse than hers. That would be cruel. I know this is not a competition, but how do I respect my own emotions while reacting to her with empathy instead of resentment? How do I respect her right to publicly grieve when I don't understand it?
Signed, Heartless
Steve: I am always struck by how much people convert their pain into self-loathing, and how quickly. Heartless, when I read that you think of yourself as a cold, hard bitch, my first thought was, “My god, you're in pain. Your grieving isn't over.” You write about how his mother is inciting people to comfort her, and I think this is envy. What she got is a support network and people to comfort her in her grief, and the reason it seems ostentatious and proprietary is because I don't think you got that opportunity. I don't think you had that support. You wouldn't resent her if you did. She seems to be getting everything where you got nothing. It's an effort to understand your own emotions around the loss of your father that will allow you to recognize that, just like you, your fiance's mother is in pain. If you extend a little bit more of that compassion to yourself, you will find a way to be more sympathetic to her.
Cheryl: Heartless, you didn't have the same experience as your fiance's mom, but you do have the same emotion: you're both suffering the loss of someone who was essential to you. That's where that sense of competition or envy falls away, and what you plug into is your empathy, your compassion, the things you have in common. Your future mother-in-law is getting a lot of support around this big loss. That's available to you, too, and it is consoling. It's okay to ask for that kind of community rallying around you, and it seems to me, Heartless, that you're feeling like that's a little undignified. But that's what she needs in this time of her loss. You're ten years into this, but it's still fresh for her. Think of this as an opportunity to open yourself up to a deeper understanding of what this loss means in your life, rather than something you have to grin and bear and fake your way through by consoling your future mother-in-law.
I think about this answer a lot. There were many times in my life where my needs for support weren’t met, and it’s easy to resent others who can ask for what they need. It’s also possible to become someone who can ask for what they need.
Here’s what I’m thinking about this week: who do I want to be? Being forty doesn’t mean that the possibility for change and rebirth is limited. This is a false belief. Travel while you’re young, blah blah blah. What do I want my life to look like? Am I willing to make more mistakes or do I need to stay where it feels safe and secure? (either one is okay, I remind myself.) What is safety and security, in this world?
What if I make my entire life my writing? What if I marry my writing? What if I step into what I love? What if I trust it to love me back?
What I’m doing this week:
Reading Wayward by Dana Spiotta, and it’s so good.
Thinking about structural coloration.
I am endlessly fascinated by neural plasticity and its connections with Buddhist believe, and the realness of us becoming what we are.
Watching In the Mood for Love.
Reading Laziness Does Not Exist and being continually grateful for writers who are willing to write brilliant books.
Reading all about Polyvagal theory and learning so much about myself and others in the process.
Listening to this playlist on repeat:
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