Sometimes you just encounter so many roadblocks in the journey of life that your only real viable option is to turn around and go back from which you came.
Around the mid-October, I decided it was time to move home. My savings were running low, I was striking out everywhere I looked for a job, I wanted to keep writing but couldn’t afford it and, to be honest, after all the death, illness and sadness in life lately, I really wanted to be near family for a bit. Two weeks later, when the horrible news that my brother’s cancer was back and better (read: worse) than ever, I knew the decision I made was the right one.
Yet, knowing that I made the right choice didn’t make the execution of that decision any easier. For the last few weeks I was in Portland, I cried every time I was alone; and unfortunately sometimes when I was not. It was difficult for me to think, organize or plan anything because I had no clue where I was going and for how long I would be there.
With the help of D.E. and some wonderful friends, I managed to pack up my apartment, put almost all of my things in storage and drive the 1,418 miles from Oregon, the place in which I feel most myself, to Southern California, the land of deep-rooted childhood insecurities.
I’ve gone from a forest to a desert, a major city to a rural farming town, a life of independence to being held accountable for where I’m going and what I’m doing.
I feel lost in a sea of “maybes,” completely void of my usual life compass that not only knows what my next port of landing is but has twenty alternative port options and the rations to get me there in case I change my mind.
In other words, I have no idea where I’m going from here.