One of my favorite professors once said to me: "a writer is always writing."
I'm a playwright and a dramaturg. So usually when I write, I write plays. I write articles. I explore my point of view of the world through dialogue and unusually high-stake circumstances. Or I deconstruct them through reflection, analysis, and critical inquiry. But sometimes... a lot of the time, actually... I just want to write. A place I can come to just allow the words to take on their own form - unfiltered, without structure, and without any other purpose other than to act as a conduit for the restlessness deep within me. That, and I'm too broke to go to a therapist (though if anyone knows any cheap and good options in Chicago that take BlueCross/BlueShield -- let a guy know.)
Anyway. So here I am, at The Wormhole in Wicker Park - writing. Today's probably the first major rainfall of the season, and the weather is still at a constant 50 degrees. I'm anxious for sun and warmth and a sense of life beyond the grey and cold but that's why Chicagoans are hard asses. They are resilient; they persevere unlike anyone else I know; six months of negative degree weather does that to a person. And it's their resilience to this bullshit weather that reminds me pretty regularly that I'm not a Chicagoan. And I probably will never be. And that's okay with me. It doesn't keep me up at night and I'm not even mad about it.
I haven't been able to sleep for a couple of days. I can't. I know why, and I'm not afraid to say why, I just don't want to. I'm so restless I can't even go home after a long day at the theater. Last night, after being out and about for 18 hours, travelling between Chicago and Milwaukee, I opted to see a movie alone at 11:30pm because I didn't want to go home alone. And when I finally did make it home, I stayed outside for a few more hours because I couldn't bring myself to open the door to my apartment and face the silence that awaited me. Every moment of silence is an opportunity to be flooded with memories and when the floodgates open it's a downpour of nostalgia and anger. For the first time in a long time, I feel hollow. Empty. Restless.
Wanting to stay, wanting to go but neither decision feels right or easy. I am a professional escapist. I will always be running away - that's what I do best. I run. I detach. When I moved to Chicago a year and a half ago, I didn't move to run away. I very much wanted to be here and still do. But as I grow older and circumstances change and things fall so far out of my control, being here has become nothing short of an escape from the turmoil I left back in Texas.
I used to think I was an independent person. Even while in a long-term relationship, I felt I had a strong sense of self and an identity beyond and outside of what I had with my partner of two years. And it wasn't until we broke up a few months ago that I realized how wrong I was. Almost every particle of my being was framed by who he was, and who we were, and without him I find myself completely disoriented and unsure of my place in this world.
Even just writing this makes me want to throw up: unsure of my place in this world. It's so crazy to think that one person, just one, can have such a significant influence on who you are and who you want to become. And though I miss him like an old toothache, I couldn't be more grateful for the opportunity to love on myself. Like a newborn babe, I'm seeing the world for the first time and although the loneliness is overwhelming most days, this feels like the most necessary part of the journey. This convalescence. This healing.
Tanya took me to see her senora a few weeks ago. She did. And though I was nervous for awhile, I'm so grateful that she did. She said a lot of things to me that I prefer to keep to myself (and in the voice memo I saved from our conversation.) But one thing she did mention was that this shift in my life was the most necessary step towards the life I am meant to live. This better version of me I have being yearning for. A life beyond the snow and silence and late-night movies. A life that is meant for me and only me. And a life I'm not ready to embrace just yet. Though every day is a journey in that direction and once I've broken through this incubation I know will be a better person because of it.
But who are we when we are not ourselves? Where do we go? What do we do?
I don't have the answers and I probably never will. But for now, I will glare at this gay couple snuggled beside me on this large communal couch in this coffee shop in Wicker Park because I'm angry and jealous and I'm starting to be okay with how I feel when I feel it -- even when it feels pathetic, and petty, and small.
I miss Colin. I will probably always miss Colin. He taught me how to be loved at a time when the love I embraced was dangerous and unfair and toxic. He taught me how to smile, and laugh, and enjoy the simple moments throughout the day - like naps, sunsets, and car rides. He taught me how to two-step, how to be more attentive, how to embrace rejection, and how to be a better person. He taught me that it's okay to be sad, and happy, and angry - as long as I found a way out of that darkness. He taught me how to be loved - unconditionally, holistically, and eternally. He taught me how to be loved. And I can never forget him for that.
I'm angry at him for giving up too easily. I'm angry at myself for not trying harder. I'm angry for missing him on rainy days because this was his favorite type of weather. I'm angry for thinking about him while this country music playlist at the bar next door circles through some of our old favorites. I'm angry at myself for texting him when I promised myself I wouldn't. And I'm angry for telling him about the rain and country music and feeling like a loser when iMessage displays the ominous ¨Read at 6:39PM¨ with no response.
I'm angry all the time. And I don't quite know what to do with that yet.
