A Boat Without An Anchor
As a kid, I’ve always felt a sense of restlessness, and a particular disassociation from people and places—a lack of rootedness, so to speak.
For Christmas, B (my husband) and I went on a trip to Bristol, spending a week at a house we found on Trusted Housesitters, a website which connects you with people with animal companions looking to petsit in exchange for accommodation. (Think Airbnb, but for people who love taking care of animals.) The house we stayed in is owned by a nice newlywed couple named Penny and Tom, and they have two cats, Potch and Pickles.
Originally, we planned to spend the holidays in Berlin, but because of the COVID situation across Europe, we thought it was wiser to stay within the UK. Getting locked down in a foreign country was a scenario that dampened the excitement of sightseeing in a new city (at least for me, since I haven’t been to Berlin yet.)
These last few weeks have been a countdown of sorts. We’re leaving London for Montpellier in a few days, and B wanted to make sure I made the most of the time we have in the city (and the country) before we settle in a new one for what might be a couple of years or so.
The past five months flew by so fast, but it feels I’ve been here for so long. Still, it’s not long enough to say that I can call this city home. As a kid, I’ve always felt a sense of restlessness, and a particular disassociation from people and places—a lack of rootedness, so to speak. A kite without a string, a boat without an anchor. Maybe it’s a defense mechanism, in a way: don’t get too attached, don’t hold tightly to things. Adapt when you have to.
But also, this inability to be grounded, while allowing me to flow, isn’t helping my desire to establish my own identity. Who am I at the end, when parts and facets of me are constantly changing? (If you've read my blog, you know this is a subject that I've been thinking about for quite some time.)
Sometimes I think that my constant need to define myself is getting in the way of doing things. I often envy people who are self-assured, those who’ve early on decided who they want to be and have built onto those foundational identities that they’re so certain of.
There are some things I’m sure about myself: I’m gay, I’m vegan, I like to write, I like to travel. Yet, within those identifications, I still question what it means to live up to being gay or vegan, and so on. Am I doing my best as a member of my community? Is simply acknowledging them enough? What are the expectations that come with being them?
I know that I will probably not have the answers to these questions, and maybe it’s just part of being human: to keep on asking.
A few days ago, B and I went to a pub night for queer vegans here in London, and B challenged me to talk to a total stranger. As a self-professed introvert, the idea made me slightly anxious, but I also remembered the moments in the past when I had to network for work. So I debated in my head: what was there to lose anyway? We will be gone soon, and whatever potential humiliation I might run into would be forgotten.
I mustered up the courage to squeeze myself into a group, and by the time the night was over, we were singing karaoke with everybody else. (Mostly me, since B said that him singing in public was definitely grounds for divorce.)
What I learned from that experience is that there are parts of me that are non-negotiable, but there are some things that I'm willing to bend a little bit for. While my inclination to be an introvert is strong, it is not fixed. And so I will try to find out what things about myself I can shape, and what is set and immoveable.
The challenge is finding out which is which.
xx Evan