Elijah
Moving roughly two thousand miles away from California was my last-ditch effort to keep from suffocating. Don’t get me wrong—I love my family.
Amy and Harry have always been supportive, doting parents. Carrie and Jess are still ever-loving big sisters. But alongside those admirable traits they harbor, they also share the uncanny ability to be overbearing and tiresome.
The Camry clan is affectionate and generally excitable, so having any form of peace and quiet or time to yourself is virtually impossible.
And as the only boy of three siblings, I somehow managed to be the sole inheritor of the ‘please leave me be’ gene. An extroverted introvert, as my mother would describe.
All that to say, I have been suffocating under their affection and attention since the day I was born. Whether it be dressing me up like their personal doll or being fussed over incessantly, my family had to make no effort when it came to smothering me. Not that I don’t appreciate it—I do. It’s just… hard, sometimes.
The therapist I was assigned growing up said that I have a detached personality. Aside from my situational crippling anxiety, I don’t feel much emotion. I can acknowledge that I love my family, or rather that I’m supposed to love my family, and I do like them. But I don’tfeelit.
I used to sit in bed and watch all sorts of movies, trying my hardest to mimic the actors on the screen, to feel the love they were feeling. Or the fear, the anger, the sorrow—really anything other than this emptiness or this devastating anxiety.
It’s not that I have zero emotions all around. I can like things or dislike things; I can even feel mild anger or disappointment. But that blistering rage that causes a man to punch a wall? That type of sadness where you lie on the floor and sob until you throw up? The feeling of loving something or someone so much that the thought of losing them makes you physically sick? I’ve never felt any of those things to those degrees. Ever.
I like cheeseburgers the same way I like my family. Isn’t that fucked up?
And this anxiety I feel when faced with something triggering? It’s horrible. I wish I could hate it; I wish I could cry or throw a fit and punch something. I wish I could feel how badly it hurts me, rather than just seeing the damage it causes.
Nevertheless, I’ve learned to control it pretty well. Between medicine when needed and knowing my own triggers, I’ve become a functioning adult. I just have to avoid heights, drugs, copious amounts of alcohol, loud men, and sharp objects. Easy, right?
I think I may have been involved in a freaky circus accident in my past life with how many random things I’m uncomfortable around.
All that being said, having this personality and living with my family is kind of difficult. Someone is always crying or screaming; someone is always trying to hug me or talk about feelings. And I just… can’t. I wish I could—I really do. I’d like to be normal as much as the next guy, but it’s just not in the cards for me.
But I digress. There is always something that can be done—this is something I learned throughout my years of learning how to operate in a society where no one else is like me. And this time around, that something is moving to Fort Myers, North Dakota.
It’s a 6-hour flight, but a full day’s drive from California. The perfect distance to be from my overly loving family.
And on top of that, Fort Myers is a small town that has just under 12,000 people, plenty of Victorian buildings, and beautiful farmland. It’s like a hidden gem, a secret getaway. Somewhere I can go to disappear.
No one will expect things from me, and I won’t be hassled by the needs of my family. I won’t have to put on a face.
One thing that really sucks about my ‘detached personality’ is that it kind of makes me a dick. I’m self-aware enough to take accountability for my actions, but it is true that my inability to empathize makes it hard not to take things at face value, or to see someone’s mistake and just be mildly irritated.
And I feel that in a small town like Fort Myers, either I’ll be left alone enough for it not to matter, or I’ll be labelled an asshole, and the locals will get over it.
Unlike California, where someone always has something to say about how their feelings are hurt or how I’m invalidating them. I’m not invalidating anyone—I literally cannot understand why they’re so pissed.
I will miss my family, though, in some respects. I may find them as annoying as I’m genuinely able to, but I do like them, and they are very kind to me. I care for them.
But I need a break, I need to get away. And the apartment I have registered under my name and the job I have lined up at the local newspaper are waiting for me.
The drive is exceptionally long. I take three days, stopping to rest twice along the way. By the time my car is zooming past theWelcome to Fort Myers, North Dakotasign, I am ready to never sit again. I’d rather sell my car and walk everywhere than do this drive one more time.
But I pull up to my new apartment twenty minutes later, grabbing my keys from the front desk and carrying up the few boxes I actually brought with me.
Clothes, books, toiletries, and a few kitchen essentials. I don’t need much else; I’m not really a hobby kind of guy. Although I do like hiking or going for a swim. Those activities don’t necessarily require a lot of supplies, though.
I drop my boxes off, taking the time to open Google Maps to see what’s immediately around me. It seems theFort Myers Post, where I’ll be working, is about ten minutes from here—an easy commute.
On that same block is a diner, a library, an antique shop, and a few miscellaneous stores I have no interest in. Past this little corner of town seems to be the schools and the family neighborhoods, Fort Myers’ suburbia.
Well, at least I know my drive to work tomorrow will be short. I’m interested in meeting the staff, although a tad concerned with the tasks I’ll be given. I don’t want to end up as the errand boy—but fresh meat typically is in these settings. At my old job, a small-time magazine I worked for in my hometown, I moved up the ranks pretty quickly. It’ll be hard starting from scratch, especially when I don’t take too kindly to people treating me like shit for no reason.
I may not be able to feel rage, but I can certainly spot an asshole and speak my mind about it. And trust me, I will.
