between places, floating

The more I talk the less I find myself capable of believing in myself at all.

“But why Mauritius?”

I have not made it to Istanbul, the layover between the USA and my intended new home, and the Turkish Airlines flight attendant is already planting seeds of doubt in my mind.

I have had chronic insomnia for weeks. Between the tension of my rushed emigration attempt, my choice of nations only two months old, and my cold turkey quitting of cannabis and tobacco, I have felt that being asleep and being awake have been replaced by varying degrees of unconsciousness. On what was to be my last night in Philadelphia, I was still packing when I had a full-on panic attack, lying on the kitchen floor, screaming and gasping for air.

Now, trying to sleep on a red-eye flight, I am barely capable of forming a thought. I’ve awoken delirious, surprised to find myself on a plane, and have stumbled to the back joining fellow passengers biding their sleepless time munching on peanuts and pretzels, and am using the attendant as night owls use bartenders: as therapist or confessor.

“Why not Bali? I think you would find everything you want there and would fit in better.”

“Why do you say that? What’s wrong with Mauritius?”

He frowns, picking his words carefully and apologizing along the way as he explains “I see you. You are full of color. You love color.” He is referring to my two-tone pants, pink turban and green beard, and he has me nailed.

“Are you saying Mauritius is… too conservative or something?” I have read that the country has little acceptance for queerness and am wondering if he is alluding to that or something parallel. I have already decided not to wear makeup until I have found my niche and feel that I can present as I please without closing doors for myself. Hell, even in Philly many people did not get it and assumed I was gay.

It’s not easy. Without makeup I look too masculine and too old, and indeed “too old” has become a theme in my mind. Too old to be trying to start my life over again. Too old to be adventuring alone. And most frightening of all, too old to find someone to share my this mad improvisation that is my life.

“Mauritius is quiet. Everything closes early. People stay with their families. In Bali, people party.” Does this man see me indeed? I’m no family man, obviously. Never been married, never had kids, determined never to have any. But I’m not a party animal, either. I have become fragile in body and mind and can no longer abuse my body in any way without suffering. I should be married and content to stay home and get to bed early every night.

Who am I? I know that my identity changes like a chameleon when I change my environment. 15 years in NYC and Philly have made me bitter, angry, defensive. No one from my days in Hawaii would recognize me. I have chosen to change my environment again so that I can change again.

But now I am between places, floating, and have little idea of what lays ahead for me. I can’t even explain to the attendant the work I do -- I call myself a computer programmer but that’s actually a bit highfalutin -- and the more I talk the less I find myself capable of believing in myself at all. I seem to be impossible.

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