So Goodbye to All This...

Several years ago when I was moving out of Manhattan, a friend who knows me probably far too well gave me Joan Didion's Slouching Towards Bethlehem. I had never read anything by Didion up to that point, but I started reading the book on my way from New York to Connecticut, and one essay in particular on my last night in the city.

It's the last essay in the book, and is titled "Goodbye To All That." One of the reasons I moved from New Haven, Connecticut to New York was that I wanted to live in the city before I got "too old" to enjoy it. When I think back on that now, I can only think, what a silly thought. I was already too old.

Didion writes, "It is often said that New York is a city for only the very rich and the very poor. It is less often said that New York is also, at least for those of us who came there from somewhere else, a city for only the very young." I was 27, but at heart, had never been and would never be a "city girl." All the years I'd lived in New Haven, I loved going into New York for long weekends, to see shows and visit friends, to explore parts of the city I'd never ventured into before, to feel more alive than I'd ever felt. And I misinterpreted that as meaning that there was a part of me that could thrive there, could be a city person in a meaningful and purposeful way. I was so wrong. My spirit was that of a "country girl"; I wasn't adventurous enough, and certainly wasn't confident enough. I don't know that if I'd been any younger, I would have thrived there - but I understand what Didion means here. For those of us not rich, not with endless resources or self-assurance or an innate understanding of how New York City works, you must be young - or at least young at heart - to live there.

Later in the same essay, Didion writes, "That was the year, my twenty-eighth, when I was discovering that not all of the promises would be kept, that some things are in fact irrevocable and that it had counted after all, every evasion and every procrastination, every mistake, every word, all of it." For me, it was the beginning of my 29th year when I moved out of New York, but the sentiment is the same. Our experiences, decades apart, seemed to be similar: "I hurt the people I cared about, and insulted those I did not. I cut myself off from the one person who was closer to me than any other. I cried until I was not even aware when I was crying and when I was not, I cried in elevators and in taxis and in Chinese laundries...." I made some lovely friends in New York, and did have some great adventures. But it is true that some of my friendships never recovered from the me I became in New York. There are things that were said and done that can never be taken back. The loneliness that set in, the longer I lived there, was unlike any feeling I have experienced, before or since. It was the most alienating place I've ever lived, where acceptance and integration were impossible and all I wanted to do was go home (although I admit, I had no idea where home was, or where I wanted home to be - I just knew it wasn't New York, nor would it ever be).

It didn't take me long to move back out of New York to Connecticut, where I thought I belonged. I made new friends, and reconnected with old ones. I continued working in a field I enjoyed - and more importantly, was very good at. I fell in love again, got married, and tomorrow, I'll officially get divorced. This, I think, is why Didion's essay has been on my mind so much. Although I said goodbye to my marriage a long time ago, and I know my husband did too, tomorrow, the state officially allows us to walk away from each other, no more obligations, no more expectations.

"That was the year...when I was discovering that not all of the promises would be kept, that some things are in fact irrevocable and that it had counted after all, every evasion and every procrastination, every mistake, every word, all of it."

I'm a lot older now. I've moved again, not just a couple of hours down the road this time, and not because I wanted to try something new. I moved because Connecticut ceased to be my home. And because I discovered that not all promises would be kept, and when I counted up every mistake, every lie, every word, it was too much to bear. So I went to the only place I knew I would be safe, and where the number of mistakes didn't matter. I went Home.

And tomorrow morning, I'll leave the courtroom having been formally told by a judge what I already know to be true. And then I'll say goodbye to all this, and not look back.