Anniversary

17 years ago today, I flew into Portland and picked the keys to my new apartment. Like today, it was a Monday. My first night there I slept curled up on a pile of my clothes in the small walk-in closet. I had only brought two bags with me, the rest of my belongings were in storage across town. My cat slept next to me, both of us exhausted from having escaped an emotionally harrowing summer in LA.

One year later to the day, I had my toes amputated. A mild infection had blossomed and sent its roots into the bone. I had no insurance at the time, and had foolishly avoided getting help until it was too late.  

Escape, avoidance, concealment. All my life I have done everything I could to keep from facing the truth. I keep running from difficulty (or walking, rather; I'll never run again) -or hobbling, or rolling from it, depending on what kind of shape my foot is in at the moment.

And now I've dragged my carcass to a crossroads. I didn't just arrive here; I've been here for the past few years, splayed out in the intersection, pinned to the ground by fear and indecision. I think about leaving Portland all the time, but I don't know where to do or what I'd do when I get there. The idea of starting over somewhere new at this age is daunting, and the thought of crawling back to where I came from is depressing. It wouldn't be so hard if I wasn't doing this alone. But this is how it turned out, this is where those tactics of evasion and denial have left me: isolated and alienated.

If I were brave, I'd make some grand leap of faith, like I did when I left everything behind to move out here. I mean, it was stupid, it was impulsive, and it caused me lasting damage. But t was the one time in my life that I didn't give in to fear, the one time I took a wild, crazy chance. I'm not sure the gamble actually paid off, but I don't really regret it. My regrets have more to do with things I didn't do, the times I flinched or shuffled my feet. The times I said no to life. I don't want to keep saying no. I know I need to get up, to move. But I'm so tired. And until my foot heals up (again), I can't take a single step forward. 

So I wait, and I wait. And of course nothing happens, because like all the self-help books hammer into us, you have to make things happen. Carpe diem and all that nonsense. Life is short, etc. etc. And it's true, it is. All around me the country is collapsing and the world is burning and everyone is freaking the fuck out because they see it all crashing down and they're fucking terrified. So am I. The traffic speeds past and swerves to avoid me as I lay here at the crossroads, huddled on a pile of clothes, spending the first night of my eighteenth year in this city that still doesn't feel like home, trying to figure out what the hell I'm going to do with myself. I guess I could start by standing up, balancing on my one good leg, and whispering to myself "Happy anniversary." Or maybe I need to scream it.