Moving...On.

It’s strange, Reader…

Minnesota has always been synonymous with oppression. Minnesota has always been the place that I don’t belong. The people are too far removed from what I’ve always been familiar with, and it’s left me in a complicated state of loneliness. But that complicated state of loneliness, I have discovered, is nobody’s fault but my own.

Bare with me, Reader. This is not some pubescent sob story of a pathetic little girl with an identity crisis. It is a confession. Well, the beginning to one at least.

Whether by paranoia or by connecting the right dots intuitively, I’ve come to realize that it doesn’t matter where I’ve ever lived or been, I’ve always had a difficult time coping with people. My mother said to me today, “relationships are hard” and I responded with, “I think that’s why I avoid them…”. And I do. I have my own internal compatibility meter, and when I’m with people I don’t connect with it’s impossible for me to get that meter to swing its needle spuriously. I try to do the “professional” or the “polite” thing by overdriving this meter with forced “how do you do”s and other means of pointless small talk, but the truth of it is, if someone makes me uncomfortable I avoid them at all cost. I am not a pursuer of friendships. Ninety nine per cent of my new, adult life friends have been made because someone made the effort to tear down my wall and get to know me. This brings on a great deal of guilt, realizing that I am one of those people that makes others work very hard to get into my life. However, once you’re in, I’m committed and I’m yours. I’ve got your back. I’ll sacrifice whatever I need to as to keep you, knowing that I owe you. This has always been my pattern: Wall --> Pursuing Stranger Breaks Wall --> I now owe them for all the work it took to get in. And I try to make it worth it. I’ve had some damaging friendships in my past, ones that have made my wall twice as thick, so when true friends come along and work the magic of getting me to trust them, I want to do whatever it takes to keep them.

A relative of mine and I had discussed the possibility of me moving in with her come spring. She lives in New York, not far from where I grew up. The temptation in the moment was overwhelming, and the two of us talked and fantasized about how wonderful it would be for me to move back “home”, planning out our weekend bus trips into The City, imagining ourselves ordering Pudgies Pizza, taking a trip to my hometown and ordering a burger and fries at my old friendly neighborhood’s A&W, all simply in the name of nostalgia, in the name of re-living a simpler time of our youth when life was so much easier. The dream was right there, in front of my face. This was the opportunity to get New York back into my life. This was the avenue that had been lost in a grid of streets of so many wrong turns, the avenue that you turn onto and say, “Hey! I know where I am, now!” I found it. I was homeward bound, for sure.

It wasn’t long after our phone call that the reality of this opportunity began to set itself in. During a weekly coffee “date” with a good friend of mine, I discovered in full that moving back to New York was in truth not what I wanted. To begin with, my reasons for moving were not legit. My friend had also said something to me that made me realize that leaving all of my relationships here, leaving all of the people who had worked so hard to tear down my wall and love me, would be so, so selfish. She didn’t say this outright, but her wisdom was understood. I understood. And she was right. My friends, my true ones anyhow, would have supported any decision for my life that I would make, and I would have no worries losing any of the friendships I’ve made simply because I packed up my bags and moved. But it’s just not the right path for me. Shockingly, returning to New York is not the right path for me. At least, not yet.

Another interesting detail came into play with my decision as well. A friend I had gone to school with back in New York has been living out here in Minnesota for several years. Her and I found each other on a social network not but three years ago, and had finally made definite plans to meet up. It had been fifteen years since we last saw each other…

It was a surreal experience for me, seeing her again. I had a piece of my New York life, one in which I remember very vividly, here in Minnesota. Someone who lived here, in Minnesota, knew the people I grew up with, knows the same streets and buildings and pizza joints that made up our little hometown, and knows, or at least can somewhat remember, the old, old Jessica from so long ago. It was surreal. It was refreshing. Familiarity! She too could relate to the difficulty of a New Yorker trying to adapt to a Midwestern culture, and that was comforting to me.

Now. I understand, Reader, that it was fifteen years ago that my family moved out to Minnesota, and that within several of those years I was living abroad in other cities and states, and I’m perfectly aware that Minnesotans reading this are gritting their teeth and saying, “Get over it already!” But this is what you need to understand: this blog was not designed to keep myself hating Minnesota. This blog was designed to help me, well…. Get over it, like I’m sure you want me to. I’m simply telling the story as the story happens. I’ve only been to four places of my twelve, and there’s still things and people and aspects of Minnesota that I still struggle with, but I’m trying. It takes years to develop a new life, and in my past experiences I haven’t stayed put long enough in one place to lay down those roots. This is the first time in my entire life that I’ve been open to embracing Minnesota as my home, the place I’ve chosen to stay in for at least another few years. The only thing that may or may not take me away from here is my career as a writer, but other than that? This is where Fate has said, “Stay”. So, I’ll stay. But I need to figure out how to put aside my negativity and embrace my life for what it is.

On October 26 of this year I had a dream. I used to be very diligent in writing down my dreams, keeping a dream journal, but haven’t been in the constant habit of it in a very long time. But every once and awhile I’ll have a dream that will shake all of my senses and rattle me down to the very essence of my soul. This one, though seemingly plain and boring to you, Reader, rattled me to the core.

I dreamt of my old home in New York which is usually the setting for most of my dreams, but this one was significant. This is what I wrote in my journal when I woke up:

…The setting overall is hard to explain, but we were definitely in my old New York house. The living room and the kitchen, as they were when I was just a child. Another security in the dream: Home. But I couldn’t have any of it. I couldn’t have him, and I couldn’t have this. There was an attached house to ours and I went through the door and couldn’t get back again… However, something else was happening in the dream. I was handing a manuscript to some literary agent that for some reason was going out of his way to pick it up at my house. Someone had asked, No… it was the agent. He asked me, No! It was someone else… No. It was the agent. He asked me, “Why do you write about your life?”

And I said, “I write about my life because it’s beautiful.” And then I woke up. The dream haunted me all day. The touch from a good man I couldn’t have, the dimly lit, warm comfort of my New York home that I wanted so very much to be real. And then, the actual confession that I believe my life is beautiful and worth writing about. I can’t have it all. Some people can. Most people can’t. But if there’s anything I can have at all, it’s my writing. It’s my beautiful life. And for some reason still unknown to me, I’m meant to share it. So. Wake up, Purpose. No more dreams.

You can believe I dreamt it or not… I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t. It seems too fitting and organized, and if I were you I would think I was a fabricating story-teller. But I swear on the graves of all of those I’ve loved and have lost, that I had this dream. It was provoked by things that were said to me by a dear friend of mine. She had just had a baby, and as I was over at her house visiting we were talking about futures. She uplifted me with some kind words, overall telling me that I had opportunities and I shouldn’t keep myself from them. Her words meant so much to me. And then I had the dream. And the dream taught me that I am not stuck. I am not in a bad place. Minnesota has always been synonymous with oppression, but not anymore. I have friends that love me for who I am, who have knocked down my walls and reminded me that home is synonymous with heart, with purpose, with life. My life is here. My life is beautiful after all. And without it, I wouldn’t have this story to share.

So. Is this the end to my blog? Is this my conclusion? She doesn’t hate Minnesota anymore! No. The transition is not yet quite through. I still feel awkward and away from myself living here. I’m still trying to come to terms with all the negative things I associate with my Minnesota life, and those things don’t necessarily have anything to do with Minnesota. It has to do with my family. It has to do with abusive friendships that changed me. It has to do with bullies, poison ivy, racism and a lost love. It has to do with things that could’ve happened anywhere on the map, but happened here. Here, is where I’m always reminded of these things and I have to figure out how to move on from them and become new.