Ten years ago:
I didn't really want to deal with other people anymore. I was tired and angry of what happened when I talked to them, or invested in ideas with them, or emotionally invested in them. I had been disappointed too many times in the recent past, and I wanted nothing more than to just be alone. But I also knew what happened to me when I let myself succumb to those sentiments. I was conflicted, but still able to pick out the truth laying there in the facts.
In an effort to keep myself to sitting in my apartment and dwelling on my own stupid selfish bullshit, I started forcing myself to go out and get breakfast at the Windmill on 8th Street whenever I had the day off. The Windmill wasn't exactly a place to get great food, and I can't imagine that the place has improved in any measurable way in the last decade. It is simply a diner like so many others, and I figured it would be a good stepping stone toward getting myself out of the house.
I was self-conscious about it at first, sitting at the counter with a cup of coffee and looking at the newspaper. I was hyper-aware of how I felt I was standing out compared to the rest of the clientele. I'd have an omelette or some pile of potatoes or something, sit and have two or three cups of coffee with as many cigarettes, and tip five on a ten dollar check and run away. I would scurry back to my apartment and spend the rest of the day sitting in front of the machine playing Civ II until it was very late, wallowing in my own isolation.
I didn't like doing it. I didn't like feeling uncomfortable and guarded, and longed for my little shell every single time. But I also didn't like feeling crazy and isolated and afraid, and I had to do something, anything, to get out of that shell. After a few trips, I did start feeling more externalized and part of the flow. I started to relax, letting go of the silly fears of being there.
It was in these moments at the counter with the newspaper that I discovered that I was being underpaid at my job. The Meijer on 16th Street was hiring base cashiers at an hourly rate that was very competitive with my pay as the Assistant Manager of Babbage's. I found this discrepancy puzzling, as I certainly had many more goals and responsibilities than simply standing at a check out stand scanning people's products. Additionally, I was sure that my career potential would not be so blatantly limited by my lack of personal transportation. I called over to Meijer to be sure that the numbers I had read in the paper were actually accurate.
The next day I went into work and demanded a raise. This is the only time I have ever done this. I told my boss that I didn't want to change jobs, but given my current financial situation I was forced to consider the possibility. I reminded him of an earlier conversation he had with the district manager, in which he thought it weird that I was trying to support myself off of the salary I was currently earning. My boss did understand where I was coming from, and went in the back and called the district manager.
He came back out a minute later. "You have your raise."
It wasn't as much as I had asked for, but it never works that way. It was slightly more than I would have made at those other positions, so I was satisfied for the moment. More importantly, I felt that I had a legitimate complaint, and it had been heard and responded to by those around me. It did help heal some of the damage that had been done previously.
It was strange to notice myself dealing with interpersonal communication better when I was in a position to be pissed off at people. My brain seemed geared toward being angry, and not having that feeling to build off of sent me into a flight of anxiety. Even though I saw this in myself, I didn't know what it meant or what should be done. Part of me was happy that I had somehow discovered this magical overdrive inside my brain, and looked to use it more often.
I caught up with the Cortland kids, letting them know what was happening with me. I told them about how alone and purposeless I felt, and how angry I was about my job. I just set it all out there for them, hoping that they might have some insight that I was somehow missing.
I used the postal service, writing out letters on a typewriter at the library and posting them back home. One of the kids thought it would be very Kerouac of us to use typewriters, and I followed along although I didn't really see the charm involved.
Slowing things down and intentionally putting each word on the page made me pause and think about what it was I actually wanted to say. Words that could never have been formed in electronic media surfaced, and I found myself with a seemingly more accurate portrayal of myself. I actually talked about many of the issues I felt had popped up: sex and mental stability and purpose and direction. The act of writing those things out forced me to recognize what they were. Telling someone about all of this made it more real.
And there were some small answers in response. The kids responded that I sounded like I was having a hard time isolating my feelings because they seemed constantly in flux. It was hard to pin down truth and communicate it with any consistency in that environment. They asked about staying up late at night trying to evaluate everything at once, drinking from a fire hose of thoughts.
They all but asked me if I felt I was manic. I had seen manic before. I had lived in a house that was ruled by mood swings. I didn't feel manic, but I also knew that was part of the trick of mental instability. I answered them honestly: I wasn't really sure of anything anymore.
Talking with them made me homesick. And being homesick made me think about moving back to New York.
I suppose the idea had always been there, floating in the background. As much as I interacted with other people, or tried to adopt the place as a home for myself, or tried to build a career I could be happy with, there was a part of me holding back from truly committing. I think that part of me exists even still, after more than eight years of putting a life together in Chicago. It wants me to get back to the world that makes sense, and is populated by friends I have already made. That part wants to go "home".
New York was also confusing and weird at the time, with my relationship with Amy in this weird flux of confusion, and owing the Cortland kids a bunch of money from the previous summer. I knew that there was no way I was going to be able to go back there with things the way they were. But the idea of going back was alluring, and I allowed myself to live in it for quite a while.
Notes on a life in exile: A retrospective
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