It’s been an eventful few months. After searching for several years, my son and I jumped and purchased a four-plex together in the Piedmont Avenue neighborhood of Oakland, California. It’s a “compromised property,” listed lower than its apparent value because of the presence of three protected tenants paying below market-rate rents. Interest rates are high, payments are unwieldy, and then I lost my job in November with 100 others in what was termed “a Future-of-Work Initiative” (i.e., AI).
Now, the market is cooling.
Then, there was the drama of leaving my home of 26 years in the first place, and the unpleasant incident that ultimately levered me out: an insane and viscerally mean neighbor who threatened to shoot me (in writing, no less) for the dire transgression of… wait for it… watering her rose.
You see, I couldn’t leave without a good reason. I loved my home, my neighborhood, and my friends. I loved my view of the mountains to the east, especially in the autumn. I loved my gardens with my prolific fruit trees. And of course, I had many beautiful memories there. But there were also sad ones with B., my children’s father who suffers from mental illness. These were hard memories, haunting ones.
Mainly, though, I was bored and seriously afraid I would never move from that spot. I always said I didn’t “want to die there.” I never imagined I’d move in at 29, raise a family, and then remain rooted there until my allotted time on earth was up.
All I ever wanted was to live an interesting life. Staying put on Guido Street didn’t jibe with that dream. Not in my mind, anyway. I had to go. Yet, I could not. It would have been disrespectful to God, to life, to the powers that be. It showed a lack of gratitude. I was fortunate. How dare I ask for more? I might be punished for that. (Catholic, anyone?)
So, I poked the beast, and got the response I needed to finally wrest myself away, and here I am in a new Oakland neighborhood, in a spacious apartment with good light, within walking distance to the desirable Oakland neighborhoods of Piedmont Avenue, Temescal, Rockridge, and Uptown. It’s fun to be able to walk to coffee. At least, it was for a few weeks. Now that I’m unemployed, and lattes are an incredible $7 (!), I’m not doing much of that.
Which leads me to my next bit. I’m leaving. Not permanently. (Yet.) (I don’t think.) But, a mere few months after moving into my new flat, I’m leaving for Buenos Aires on a one-way ticket on Tuesday. I think I’ll stay three or four weeks and return. But the trip is largely a reconnaissance mission to ascertain if I can free myself of this life.
You see, while I very much need a traditional job to remain here, I can almost, almost… make it abroad and not have to take another full-time job like the one I just lost. It was a good job, of course, but not something that made my heart sing. Far from it.
In a job interview with a recruiter yesterday, I was asked to describe my “favorite initiative at HP.” I didn’t even remember working at HP. It’s on my resume so it must be true, but Jesus. I was a writer, pumping out “collateral.” Are we really supposed to wax rhapsodic about writing sales material for manufacturing companies looking at how to leverage smart sensors so they can make do with fewer folks and increase revenue?
Of course, that’s exactly what I made up on the spot. He seemed happy with my response. But the fakery of it all is nauseating.
In my 20s, I always said I would join the Peace Corps when I retired, and maybe I will.
For now, however, I’m going to Buenos Aires to dance (Argentine Tango). To check out the scene. To see if I can fly under the radar there and just maybe piece together a life with dignity that works. To see if I can get free from the stressors of this place, where the spectre of He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named potentially becoming president (!) again casts an ominous pall over everything, where the cost of living has become untenably high, and where the only way to get health insurance without paying thousands of dollars a month is to dutifully accept the traces of a full-time corporate job churning out “collateral” again.
I’m 55 years old, and I’ve been living a life that’s not my own for decades now. Of course, I must also be grateful. I fell into marketing technology writing, and it allowed me to raise a family in one of the most expensive parts of the world. I’m proud of that. I got to write for a living, in fact, and that’s pretty cool. But you see, it’s not my life. I don’t want to be a “marketing manager.” I find nothing of value in that.
It’s time for me to make a life I can call my own, one that more fully resembles me, and that is what my dearest, oldest friend said today when she came by.
I was scared, frozen, filled with shame and doubt. I said, “How can I be leaving the country when I’m unemployed, when I have no income? How is that responsible?” I spoke of how time is just running through my fingers, how I read the New York Times on my phone ten times a day, how my mind has turned to mush.
She said (because she is my oldest, dearest friend, and she’s a badass, and she can), “God damn it, Christy, GO. You’re one of the only people I know who can actually do this. You’re free. You have no aging parents to care for, your kids are launched and doing great, and you don’t have a job. AND you have the skills to make it as a freelancer! Tackle your anxiety and your alcoholism demons and take this adventure. And start a Substack.”
“I already have a Substack,” I said meekly. “One I don’t write on.”
“Well, write it. Every day. Write the elements of your memoir. Write about tackling your demons. Write about the adventure. Write about tango! Write down daily what you’re proud of, what you’re grateful for, and be present to your life. For Christ’s sake, Christy. Live.”
See what I mean? We need people. I’ve been trapped, churning in my head for weeks. She came over here and gave me the proverbial kick in the butt. I’m sure I’ll need it again and again. (And again.) The voice inside my head is no friend to me. But, it helped immensely, that kick did. I feel more alive, more awake, more confident and galvanized. I’m breathing again. I’m no longer curled up into a little ball paralyzed by fear. I’m ready to take on the task of enjoying the rest of my life, my way. Or at least to make a serious effort. One day at a time.
The adventure begins.
I'm excited for you. Be safe and I wish you many fine embraces! I agree with your friend - please write every day so we may all enjoy your adventure.
Wonderful post as always. Wishing you the very best for your life, Christy. YOU CAN DO IT ❤️