Caught Somewhere Between Escapism and Intuition
Wondering if maybe I'm just a cosmopolitan coastal elite (read: "die hard city girl") after all
Catch up on my existential malaise 👇
I have been struggling to feel like myself lately, whatever that means. We arrived in this town on the first day of May, and I kid you not when I say it feels like an eternity has passed. But in fact, it’s been exactly four months since we arrived. For the first couple of weeks living here, I was struck by the novelty of it all – the hundreds of miles of bike and running path, the trendy social club, the new restaurants to try, and, of course, surprising opportunities like going to the rodeo for the first time.
At first, I felt like I could wear this costume – that it might actually fit. Now, four months in, I have realized that it is exactly that – a costume.
I am not myself here, but instead a version of myself attempting to be myself here. The other day, I was talking with my dad on the phone and he asked how I’m liking it here.
“I think I would really like it here, if only I was the kind of person that could really like it here.”
Whatever that means.
It was easy to attribute all of this to change. When did I start feeling this way? In four months time we moved across the country, I quit my job, I had all new people around me, brought home a puppy, and then started a new job. I found myself trying to map my feeling of unease and discontentment to any one of these massive changes.
But nothing seems to fit. No, what’s happened is the entire shape of my life has changed and it has unearthed some questions, doubts, and desires that I have long buried.
There were moments when I thought Arkansas might be the problem. I’d find myself thinking, if I only go to some other place, then I might become happy again — my fully evolved and embodied self (we’ll come back to this if-then thinking in a moment).
Then, a couple weeks ago, I took a class at my favorite (and only) pilates studio in town, and then grabbed a latte at the hip local coffee shop. As I was walking across the town square in the seven o’clock sunlight with my artisanal coffee, I realized that NW Arkansas is most certainly not the problem. This town is beautiful. It’s idyllic, and active, and there are a lot of people that would (and do) really love it here. The problem is — I’m just not sure I’m one of those people; which makes me feel a sense of penetrating isolation as I watch people, notably my partner, fall completely in love with this place. I’ve realized lately that there is nothing quite as lonely as the feeling of being absolutely uprooted and uncomfortable, while those around you seem so perfectly content.
The back-to-back trips I had planned to Chicago and then New York for mid-August emerged from the horizon like a saving grace — maybe I’ll start feeling like myself once I’ve had a dose of city air. As I prepared for the trip I spoke with a dear friend, and she said, in her no bullshit way, “Be careful not to let this time away just further your escapism.”
What are friends for if not telling the goddamn truth?
I’d been worried about this too. This trip would be my first time leaving Arkansas since we arrived, and I was going to visit two of my favorite cities. A few weeks before I admitted to myself that I was actually dealing with some bone deep dissatisfaction, I thought that perhaps this malaise was the result of my escapism – my fear of commitment. While I most certainly do have a tendency towards hyper-independence, it occurs to me now that chalking all of this up to escapism and fear of commitment was just another form of self-abandonment. It was a way to ignore the call coming from inside the house.
So, with my bags packed for the city, I also nestled the question and curiosity right next to my heart. Will this time away help me sink further into my life in Arkansas? Or, will it somehow confirm the thing I am least willing to admit? Will traveling to the city I once called home make me finally pick up the call? Sometimes it takes us a while to accept the whisper of our intuition. Sometimes, we want, so desperately, for our intuition to be wrong.
Chicago was like a summer breeze blowing away the dust and grime that had clogged my mind of late; runs along Lake Michigan, roaming the streets munching on Garrett's popcorn, dancing in dark concert venues – all a salve for my restlessness. Returning to Arkansas a few days later, I felt revived and relieved.
Within 48 hours, I was back on a plane. This time headed for New York City. I was in the city for a new job I just started, but I landed on Sunday and had all day to wander aimlessly. I biked through my favorite neighborhoods — the street corners coming alive with bittersweet memories. I felt a buoyancy return to my body — an aliveness. I devoured croissants from my favorite bakery, had lunch with my dearest friend, held hands with her as we walked by the water, and cried on a park bench as I shared all that I’d been going through since my move. I felt traces of relief wash over me as I finally said everything aloud.
By the final afternoon in NYC, it felt like a small, rebellious seed had been planted in the center of my belly. I was biking through Manhattan having just spent the afternoon sipping iced lattes and thumbing through books at used bookstores. I was flying down 2nd Avenue through the Lower East Side, then onto Chrystie Street and through Chinatown. I came to a halting stop on the corner of Hester Street as the light turned red. A stream of people began flowing across the street — delivery men carrying pounds of Chinese food, young coworkers clearly shaking off the stress of the day, old Asian women standing at store fronts wiping the city dust from their wares.
It was about three o’clock in the afternoon and the dappled sunlight was falling through the leaves and dancing on the dirty street. I looked around and felt an incredible, overpowering sense of being alive — of being a part of something. I like the dirt and the grime and the bustle and the busyness — it has always felt to me like proof of life.
Leaving New York felt different — confusing and energizing. There was this thrumming sensation coursing through my body. I found myself obsessively cruising Zillow for apartments. Then I would feel a wave of shame for doing so. Was this the escapism my friend had warned me about, or was this the persistent call of my intuition?
It wouldn’t be the first time in my life that I’d fallen victim to the pitfalls of if-then thinking. This is the kind of thinking that tells you — if only you move, get a new haircut, get a new boyfriend/girlfriend, house, purse, life, body, dress… then you will manifest into the picture-perfect Pinterest board version of yourself.
I can’t seem to clearly delineate between escapism and intuition. I do know, though, that as I watched the skyline passing by on my way to the airport, I felt myself pulled back to this city where I had lived and loved for so many years. The first six years of my twenties are painted across the city — friendships flourishing in Central Park, relationships beginning with electric eye contact, relationships ending with desperate hugs on street corners in Brooklyn. Boyfriends and blisters, bouquets, being broke, and becoming. It was a city that heaved and caressed in equal portions. And I missed it. I missed it so desperately.
When I returned to Arkansas, there wasn’t a fueled sense of escapism though. Just a quiet whisper, a wondering, a new curiosity — what chapter is about to unfold?