Where's The Nearest Exit?

Choosing a seat in class was always a simple decision—nab the desk in the back that was furthest from the front of the class yet closest to the door. If any one beat me to this coveted seat, I would become mildly annoyed, sometimes slightly irate, but mostly ardently anxious.

Movie theaters: my default is always the aisle seat, closest to the exit as possible while still getting a good enough spot to enjoy the film. That is, if I’m going to the movies by myself. If I’m with friends or a date, I will not follow this rule as to hide the fact that I need to constantly be near an exit because I have deep-rooted issues that stem from God knows where.

I have been the type of person who is constantly looking for an exit, a trap door, a way out. To be stuck in a place where I can’t easily wiggle my way out gives me frightful nightmares, ones that could induce a full blown panic attack. I’ve never been one to fantasize about being in one spot for a long period of time. Anything that resembles a promise of commitment or gives the guise of settling down will produce large beams of sweat that slowly makes its way down my ass crack while simultaneously making my heart want to bust out of my chest a la The Shining.

There were plenty of times during my childhood where my brother and I were left at a babysitter’s or some random day care and it would feel like hell on earth because it wasn’t home. I still remember the mangy day care my parents dumped me and brother off when we went to vacation in Las Vegas twenty-somewhat odd years ago. It was my parents wedding anniversary, and like a lot of people married to one another they wanted to spend one evening alone together, but were also on a budget/poor. I think they picked the most convenient day care without much research because I remember it smelt terrible and the kids staying there were gross with Kool-Aid stained upper lips and sticky hands. Plus they were rude as fuck. Right before bed, a gross-looking, snotty kid told me that another kid peed in my bed the night before. Of course after hearing that kernel of knowledge, I couldn’t fall asleep. If my memory serves me correctly, I think I tried to wake up my brother in the other bed but he was passed the fuck out because no one was mean enough to tell him about any kids peeing in his bed. Needless to say I was thrilled when my parents came to pick us up after midnight.

Most of the time I didn’t know these people that were caring for us but my parents trusted them enough to put us in their care to make sure me and my brother didn’t die. I was unable to leave, impatiently awaiting for my parents to pick us up. They were terrible with telling us what time they would be back. The answer would be “we’ll be back later” with no specific time. I would later learn in my college psychology class that doing this could instill abandonment issues later in life, which I carry in spades. Instead of enjoying the few hours I had that were parent free, I would shake and tremble with anticipation to see one or both of them walk through the door to break me out of the neurotic jail I had created for myself. Being in one too many of those situations really fucked up my sense of security. Knowing I have an out with the knowledge I can leave any time I please can make my heart rest easier, my brain run less.

A couple of months ago my roommate, who had been living here for nearly ten years, announced she was moving out. I was completely okay with this since she had really loud sex that would sometimes wake me up in the middle of the night. What I completely forgot was she had all the utilities in her name. I ended up picking up the responsibility reluctantly. I didn’t want to have to go through the process of calling the companies to have every thing switched over to my name—I hate talking on the phone more than anything in the world. Plus the deposits had to lay down for each bill, which is so fucking stupid I’m just going to glide over this nuisance as I remember I had to lay down a deposit for our first water bill that was five times more than the actual water bill itself. What really made me anxious? All of these companies requested the same thing: that I was to keep the utilities in my name for twelve consecutive months to avoid a cancellation fee.

I had been thinking about moving closer to work so my commute wouldn’t be so long but haven’t pulled the trigger because the thought of living in South County is a thought that disgusts me to my core. While I do live in a bougie area in the North Side, there is less homogeny. The North Side has its charm, I feel more welcome and comfortable. South County the people can be total dickwads, as many of them are rich with no regard to anyone who falls in a lower tax bracket. I’m a working class gal who grew up in a working class family. I don’t know anything else. Living amongst the working class makes me feel at ease.

The thought of staying in one place for a full year was an upsetting pill to swallow. Since I started renting, I’ve always kept the amount of things to move down to a minimum—all of my possessions can be easily stuffed into tote bags, used purses and other random shoe boxes . The furniture I own, which includes a cheap night stand, a bed with a mattress that’s too old to still be utilizing, a head board that was found on the side of the road with a broken down dresser, could easily be tossed if I needed to make a quick getaway. As long as my laptop, DVD and book collection is somewhere by my side, I’m okay to do away with the rest. My real babies? My precious Criterions.

Right before my friend moved across the country, he told me how he threw away all of his furniture and was planning to buy new things when he arrived at his final destination. He explained to me that a couch was the perfect place to nap on—you could catch some zzz’s but not get too comfortable to the point where you find yourself slumbering into a five hour coma. If you nap on the bed, you’re essentially fucked. He made the argument that a couch can tie the living room together. I nonchalantly told him I would rather get a bunch of pillows and throw them in the corner of the room and call it a day, explaining that the living room didn’t need furniture. He shook his head in disappointment as he sipped his beer, acting as if I had just confessed that I had voted for Trump in the 2016 Election.

When he was talking to me about this, my pea brain couldn’t fathom buying a couch. Buying a couch means one more thing to saddle me down. One more thing I had to worry about if I have to drop everything to leave. I would, in essence, be betrothed to that couch since I put in money and time to purchase it. Of course once my roommate moved out, she sold the couch which meant we had to buy another couch. I personally would have preferred having a vacant hole in the middle of the living room than to even thinking about getting something to fill the blank space in our home, but majority rules.

A few weeks prior I had another “Heaven-reveals-her-adverseness-towards-commitment” conversation where I told this same friend that a manager of mine had given me the hint that they were planning on hiring me as a permanent employee.

“That’s good”

I think this is the point in the conversation where I made a face that revealed discomfort and uncertainty.

“That’s what you wanted…right?”

“My feelings on it are like being in a relationship: we have a good thing going. I don’t need a piece of paper or a ring to make me official. I can leave when I want, I’m not tied down to the company”

“You know you can just quit, right?”

I mean, yeah. That’s simple. Fuck, even down right logical. I can absolutely quit. I am still single, I have no children, no burden to keep me from one day submitting my two weeks notice, quitting and moving to the East Coast, if I so pleased.

However that means I’m committing to something—the main word in that sentence being “commitment”, which to me is just another word for “stuck”. My romantic history is one of interest when it ties to the idea of commitment— men I have embarked on some relationship with have been unavailable either emotionally or physically. Maybe that’s why I was attracted to them initially—I knew they’d never commit out of unwillingness or they didn’t live in the same state as me. I could have feelings towards the person without ever having to commit. Crushes are great because of this—I can fantasize about the person I’m mushy about without ever going through the messiness of being in a relationship, the tough stuff that comes with being tied down to one individual. I’m about 99.9% certain these particular men’s desirability factor was based on their inclination to commit, which in the back of my mind I knew would never come to fruition. I could put the effort into having a relationship without having to deal with all the hard stuff. You know, the “commitment”. In turn, I could protect myself from having one person know me, all of me, the ugliness I carefully shield from the rest of the world. Everyone who has interacted with has a piece of the puzzle that is Me, each piece a contribution to making the full picture of Heaven. I can’t imagine one person holding all the pieces to complete that puzzle. They wouldn’t like the finished piece.

Marriage has never been in the blueprint for me, having children is still up in the air but as I get older that option seems further and further away from ever happening, which I’m completely okay with. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized I work at my best when I’m solitary. Every failed relationship that is embroidered into the quilt of my so-called romantic life, every man that is magically appeared into my life as easily as they have mysteriously disappeared has given me more insight that being alone is okay. I think if I were to ever find myself in something that resembled commitment, I would be itching to get out of the relationship as quickly as I entered it. I like the idea of being committed to one person in theory, but if I were ever to put it into practice I’m sure it would be emotional mayhem.

I’ve never needed another person to feel complete. All I’ve needed is the knowledge that I can come and go out of things with ease, whenever I please. The peace of mind knowing that I can make a quick escape is more titillating than any “perfect” man I would ever meet and want to settle down with.