If you want to skip the intro, scroll down to paragraph 4: So what is my point here?
We are cleaning up…my husband and I have been living in this one-bedroom apartment for about 10 years now (I never thought this would happen). It is not that we don’t want to move, but why should we? After all, we live in San Francisco, where rent is high and purchasing a “home” remains a dream for us as long as the price for a one-bedroom without storage, parking, garden…costs a minimum of $450,000 (yes, 450 thousand dollars…and that is if you are “lucky”). Our rent is very good compared to what others pay these days. We live in a nice part of the city, within walking distance to downtown, Chinatown, North Beach…so we don’t move.
Recently we finally came up with the bright idea to rent a storage unit. When I am not writing, or working, I do crafts. And I have LOTS of collected crafts tools and stuff that I refuse to get rid of. In the 10 years I have accumulated quite a bit. It has also gotten pretty tight in the two rooms we have. Given that we have only two small closets and no storage space, boxes have been pushed into corners and against walls, covered by nice fabric in an attempt to make these corners look like tables or dressers. We have not been very successful at that.
Well, you get to a point when you look at that and say: shoot! this is ridiculous. I am tired of living like I am still in college! So we got the storage unit and have already taken quite a few well-packed boxes there. I am still working on sorting through the rest (most of it is my “junk”). We are beginning to breathe again and are excited about moving furniture around to make it more spacious.
So what is my point here? It is not about describing this whole move or change. That’s really not very exciting. It is about pages from a journal that I found while sorting through a pile of papers. Somehow I had torn them out of that journal, not sure why. But 16 years later, I still have the pages. And I got distracted for about an hour because I read through every page. And all I can think about is that I really haven’t changed much. And then I wonder if we really ever change much?
This entry was written on September 15th, 1991. I arrived in San Francisco in May of 1991. I had been in a relationship for about 3 years with my last college boyfriend. We had driven across the US, lived in Tuscon, Arizona for 2 months and then moved on to San Francisco, which had been the right thing to do. Here is what I wrote on that day:
Should I just begin as though nothing had changed? Will I make a much stronger effort to write better? to be more creative? not to fear the edge? Is it even possible for a person like myself to be an individual in this world where everyone seems to end up being the same as every other person on the street? How different do I wish to be? I’m sure that every one of us thinks himself unique, special, never on the same boat as all the other humans that exist. I feel as though, if it came down to it, I’d be the chosen one — the only one who was honest with himself and the world — who lived his life to the fullest of his abilities and creativities. And yet, I put these words down and I feel inside that I’ve already been fooling myself. I’m lying to you all. But most of all, I am lying to myself.
I ACCUSE MYSELF OF DISHONESTY!
Right now, I am full of disappointment and shame. In school, among the intellectuals, I felt the freedom to be, to live, to explore and experience. Now, the ropes are wrapping themselves around my fists and ankles. I’m balancing myself on a tightrope. I’ve pushed myself off of the edge, but haven’t jumped into the open unknown. I’ve still caught myself on the tightrope and tried to compromise. I pull myself back up and if I keep very calm and orderly I will walk to the other side, one step at a time. Safe. Balanced.
But this is not the time yet to be balanced. This balance is not real. It is not coming from inside. It is created by my imagination, by my power to convince myself that this is what I want and need. Reality has been kept away and I am living a pseudo-reality which, with the strength of my mind, I have managed to shape into the form I desire.
What are the results? Constant dissatisfaction, frustration, annoyance, boredom, anger and the difficulty to find reasons to live. I live in the wrong direction. My insides are dying and I try to liven them up, not by looking at the root of the problem, but by observing the shape and order of the problem. I try to change this and that, move an anger factor down one level while thinking that replacing it with order will make it all bearable. The roots are what need attention and work. How is it possible for me to write it down, and not actually live it? Fear of DEATH! It all comes back to the same thing.
So this is what I wrote when I was 25 years old (almost 26). I am now 42. I fear to ask myself the questions: am I more real today? Am I more authentic? Have I compromised too much? Have I tried too hard to walk in balance?
In my journals, I have always been more honest with myself. In my day to day life, I have always seen myself as walking alongside MY path. That path that not only includes the exterior life I live, the person you see, but also the person I am in my journals. The person who is creative, who wants to experience all there is in life, the person who wants to connect with people who attract her, the person who wants to write about everything she feels and sees and hears without boundaries…the person who is NOT afraid, who is not concerned with what people will say and think of her, the person who acts as though death was around the corner, because it could be. And if it was, it would be very sad that she waited too long to be free, to be herself, to be honest.
