Part III: Interlude?

A day hasn’t gone by since I’ve moved to LA where I don’t feel guilty for neglecting this blog. I’ve struggled during the last three months to find the right words to share all these amazing experiences with you–how to outline it…, where to begin…, how not to drag it into a novel-like entry (or series). Each day that goes by, I feel disappointed for not writing. I will get to what life’s been like in detail, but right now, what I’m feeling in this moment seems most important to describe.

I’m overwhelmed with sadness when the sun begins to set each Sunday. Like today.

I’m just not ready to let the day go. I’m sure many people can relate. The weekend is for me. Time outside of work. I feel selfish for wanting more time and lousy for being such a procrastinator, but who doesn’t? I remember ten years ago when I lived for the night. When everything became quiet. I could write. I could cry. I could play piano and write poetry. All with no consequence for the following morning. There was a safety in all of that solitude. Now, living in Los Angeles–this place that I’ve ached for, deep in my heart to be in and dreamt of as a child–all I want is the sunlight and activity.

CARPE DIEM

Every weekend I wander around, either taking care of errands, shopping for items to make this bedroom feel more like home, or meeting new people. I knew one day soon I would burn out. Finally, yesterday, I did. I needed to lay around, enjoy a nice dinner and rest in front of the TV. Literally, every single day here, has been spent anywhere. Being out and about felt like an obligation to my new home, this city, and this journey that I’ve somehow had the balls to follow through on. I wanted to consume as much of my environment as I could. Otherwise, I’d feel as if I let a day go to waste. Something I had no issue with back in New York, where plenty of sunny days were spent flipping through Netflix. A part of all of this sadness boils down to not writing, allowing myself enough time to reflect, and put everything ‘on paper.’

I want to be alone in private, but I don’t want to feel alone. While meeting new friends, I’m now juggling between time for adult responsibilities, socializing and peace.

“You need to set time aside, even if you have to block out some people for a while.” Maybe that’s why I feel so overwhelmed here. It’s not necessarily a bad thing—I’ve been overwhelmed with joy and gratitude for having a home, a roommate and a job to sustain it all. But then there’s this stuff, and sadness that’s stripping my confidence away. I’m learning new things and feel inadequate. Each week I have to prepare myself with some kind of emotional armor because I’m sure to get hit. Every day, like a guarantee, there’s something at work that makes me feel so small. I allow people to be superior over me, even though my light is contributing to their day and to their success. They are human, afterall, just like me. No matter how difficult transitions were in New York, having loved ones nearby gave me some kind of protective barrier from the big world. Now, I’m falling without any sort of safety net.

The familiarity is all gone. One exciting aspect: I’m building a new map of memories here. I’m collecting all these street signs and creating daily habits. Beyond that, there’s nothing. Back home in New York, there were people who’ve passed through in my life and knowing they’re within the same vicinity was some subliminal comfort. Even people who I haven’t physically seen for decades would put me at ease. I’m reminded of it every time I scrolled through Facebook and feel the distance.

I’ve been living in fear. One Thursday morning, I couldn’t resist texting my mother and friends to pray for me, to pray the day’s issue would resolve. I was shaking and crying in the bathroom. First, I was afraid to be here. Now, I was afraid that I am.

“You’re way too hard on yourself,” my roommate would tell me (or anyone who would hear my woes). I treat things with permanence, as if it would be the end of the world if I had some hand in destructing something. If I’m not part of the solution, I must be the problem. But I’m not the problem. I haven’t given myself enough credit for how brave it is to move cross-country — alone – without any certainty of where I’d live or work. I’m grateful for God’s guidance; and trusting in this path, no matter how often I doubted it.

Everyone who’s an LA transplant has told me it will get easier, birthdays will get better and your circle of friends will become stronger. I’m approaching four months as a resident and I’m hopeful one day I’ll look back on this and be okay. Better than okay. But sometimes it sucks.

Last Sunday I attended a new church: Hillsong LA, connected to the Australian church and worship band that I discovered through Spotify. I feel at harmony there, more than I ever had in any church. It was a delight to be there again today. I wondered if I would make a new friend. Soon. Maybe next Sunday. Things will come together so long as I’m proactive. I just need time to adjust. I wish there were an extra day between Saturday and Sunday to help me cope, and hope those who strike my armor would show mercy for the new kid.