I got back from London yesterday, after an extremely long day, two expensive COVID tests and a petrifying detention at immigration at the border, where it seemed that everyone who didn’t have a US passport was escorted into a little room, their passport held hostage by the border guards. I hate the way I, and everyone else, acts around immigration officers, profoundly aware that one slip of the tongue or face twitch at the wrong moment could mean being denied entry. Once, upon arrival to New York, when asked if I was there for business or pleasure, I blurted out: Well, it’d be weird if I said for pleasure, wouldn’t it?, which earned me a very long, confused stare from the guard before he slowly handed over my passport and waved me through, apparently unable to think of a reason to deny me entry but still wanting to convey that now was not the time to make a joke. This time there were no panicked outbursts, but the behaviour of everyone in the room was utterly ingratiating, people popping up and rushing to the desk as soon as their name was called, calling the men ‘Sir,’ brandishing files of paperwork proving their eligibility for entry. The guards, meanwhile, joked at each other, throwing people’s passports into boxes and discussing basketball scores, before turning their stony faces on all the people gathered in the room, enjoying their wielded power with a pleasure bordering on masturbatory.
I’ve been thinking a lot about my state of mind while I was in London. Before I left, I said to anyone and everyone who would listen that it was just going to be three weeks of hugging people and crying, but oddly, I didn’t cry once, not upon greeting people or upon leaving them, but almost everyone else did. I’m not someone who ordinarily tempers their emotions, or is even capable of doing so; they control me completely. I cry at everything, all the time. Specifically, and weirdly, videos of military personnel returning home from active service and greeting their children who they haven’t seen in months. I actually seek out these videos. I do not like the military, or children, but every single time they make me cry.
I’d been dreaming of this trip since it became apparent that I wouldn’t be able to do it for a long time, when the border closed last March, and yet when it happened: no tears. Not even tears in response to other people’s tears, another usual trigger. But then, on the plane I watched The Dark Knight Rises and cried three times in the space of two hours. Not even always sad crying: yes, Alfred’s speech got me – I’ve stitched you up, I’ve set your bones, but I won’t bury you – and so did the scene where he sees Bruce at the café in Florence with his hot new Catwoman girlfriend, but I also cried when Bruce donned his cape for the first time since retirement and came bursting through a wall on his little Batman motorbike with absurdly fat tires and the music swelled. What the fuck is that? I love the Batman movies, but not because I think they have an extraordinary amount of emotional depth. Why was I so emotional about the return of Bruce Wayne, mostly unsympathetic billionaire?
You weren’t, I hear you saying. This was a delayed reaction to leaving London. Yeah, maybe. But then why didn’t I start crying when I got to the airport? Why did I not cry into my poached egg and mushroom pot at the LEON in Heathrow? Because I had the row to myself on the plane and so could cry in private? Probably not, since I have no problem crying in public normally. I cried so hard watching Nomadland on the plane on the way to L.A. that the couple sitting next to me both turned around and stared for a good few minutes, apparently unsure whether or not to intervene, until I made some awkward hand flapping motions in their general direction and they went back to watching The Devil Wears Prada.
One of the friends I saw in London, who is having an extremely shit time, told me that she thinks her emotions have been completely stunted by the last few months. She, like me, is someone who swings between huge emotional highs and desperate emotional lows, not being friends with what some might call the middle ground, but recently she’s been incapable of being either really happy or, more strangely, considering what’s going on in her life, really sad. She’s just kind of floating in the middle. That’s exactly how I felt in London – a kind of semi-contented calm, which is not something I’ve a) experienced much of or b) ever striven for in my life. I veer much more towards extreme decisions that will either triumph spectacularly or fail horribly, for some reason believing that I need to eschew comfort at all costs, comfort being the antithesis of intrigue and excitement. Case in point: moving to New York in the first place. I’ve often wondered why I have so much trouble answering the simple question, ‘So, what made you want to move to New York?’, which obviously I have been asked countless times, because it’s a natural question to ask, even by people who have no idea how difficult and time-consuming it is to do. And recently I’ve been wondering if literally the only reason is because I was comfortable in London, so therefore I had to shoot my entire life in the face and move somewhere I would need to start over again. London, on paper, was a better option. I had friends, I was close to my family, I had much more freedom in where I could work, but I threw that all away in search of something else, which turned out to mostly be comprised of fire escapes and 24-hour bodegas.
I wonder if the lack of extreme emotions I’ve experienced over the last few weeks was just self-preservation. If I allowed myself to feel ecstatic at being back, it would be too difficult to return, and similarly if I felt too sad at leaving, I would wonder why I ever left in the first place. Comfort might not always equal excitement, but at some point I hope I can accept it for the positive things it has to offer, because I don’t want to be 45 and still upending my life every few years, the second that things start to get good.
One good thing:
As part two of the friend’s birthday I missed this year (part one of which was the aggressive scrubbing and loss of several layers of skin at the hammam last week), our friend contacted her friend who teaches backstrap weaving classes, a technique she learned while volunteering in Mexico. I wasn’t over-excited about going – I feel like I look like I should be good at arts and crafts but I suck at basically every one I’ve ever tried – but I knew my friend would love it and figured at the very least I would make some kind of placemat that I could display in my room and answer questions about smugly. But unexpectedly, I loved it, possibly because I was good at it – funny how those things always go hand in hand. The teacher had us set up in her garden, where she had a chiminea going (because British summer) and three looms tied to the posts of a wooden trellis. She strapped us in to the looms (using the aforementioned backstrap) and showed us how to move the wooden dowls and thread the string through the weft to make patterns. It felt to me like we were at some kind of pre-natal class, sitting on the floor and creating something growing outwards from our crotches, and thrusting and pulling on each pass through the weft to create or release the tension. It was unbelievably absorbing. I’ve never had an open beer sitting next to me for so long and not touched it.
One bad thing:
I was buying snacks before getting the train to Bristol for the weekend and had my heart set on Sainsbury’s herby spinach and feta parcels, which I used to eat a giant four-pack of on the ten minute walk between London Bridge station and my old therapist’s office, which is basically the only reason I went to therapy for as long as I did. Beyond eating the parcels, it was just me sitting in front of a 70 year old man for an hour a week, trying to explain to him what a fuckboy was. But then I found something very similar in M&S, so I guess it’s not really a bad thing at all. It was a pretty good week.
I've never shared this before, but this post really speaks to me and makes me want to:
A while back, I saw writing on the wall I would need to change jobs. I knew I'd likely have to move across the country, leaving dear friends behind. But I couldn't show it. My boss couldn't know I was looking for the exit. And the interviewers needed to see me as a presentable, high functioning worker. It led to this horrible sensation where I knew we were doing things for the last time, but no one else did. Last brunch together, last bike ride, last night out on the town...
This period lasted about 2 months before I could finally announce my departure. When it ended, I broke down when I should've been overjoyed for the opportunity in front of me. Sometimes it's like that. We can only delay or deny feelings for so long. You hit the nail right on the head with self preservation.