Introduction
The problem was you had to keep choosing between one evil or another, and no matter what you chose, they sliced a little bit more off you, until there was nothing left…I had no interest in anything. I had no idea how I was going to escape. At least the others had some taste for life. They seemed to understand something that I didn’t understand. Maybe I was lacking. It was possible. I often felt inferior. I just wanted to get away from them. But there was no place to go.”
― Charles Bukowski
I was once told you’re either the cow or the bull in a storm. When a storm is approaching, bulls run toward it. Cows run away. We either face the storm head on and it passes or we cower away, run from it, hoping it’ll never catch us, but no one’s ever been able to outrun a storm.
I thought I was a bull, facing the storm, running through it, no turning back.
“Make a radical change in your lifestyle and begin to boldly do things which you may previously never have thought of doing, or been too hesitant to attempt. So many people live within unhappy circumstances and yet will not take the initiative to change their situation because they are conditioned to a life of security, conformity, and conservation, all of which may appear to give one peace of mind, but in reality nothing is more damaging to the adventurous spirit within a man than a secure future. The very basic core of a man’s living spirit is his passion for adventure. The joy of
life comes from our encounters with new experiences, and hence there is no greater joy than to have an endlessly changing horizon, for each day to have a new and different sun. If you want to get more out of life, you must lose your inclination for monotonous security and adopt a helter-skelter style of life that will at first appear to you to be crazy. But once you become accustomed to such a life you will see its full meaning and its incredible beauty.”
Jon Krakauer
I printed this quote and taped to my computer at work. Right below the computer screen so when I lost all motivation of responding to emails and writing proposals, I’d just reread Jon over and over and over again. Sometimes I’d just stare at the words and hope they’d sink in – a black and white reminder of a life outside of half-height cubicle walls, square-patterned disco carpeting, dirty dishes in the office sink, and passive aggressive emails suggesting you clean up your shit and don’t talk too loud. I read it every day believing that sometime in the future, I’d make it happen.
What was “it”? Who the fuck knows. I thought about what it’d take to make a radical change in my life. It had to be something epic, something that’d change me as a person. I had to do something to reignite whatever spark that used to be there. I just didn’t know what to do or what the fuck that spark was. Did I ever have a “spark” or had I always been shitty?
I was that person who didn’t take initiative to change my situation. I’d fallen to the 9-to-5 pattern: wake up at 4:50am, eat a healthy breakfast that consisted of two eggs, cheese, avocado, and bell peppers; drink my coffee with heavy whipping cream, bring a second mug for the drive to work; park on the street a mile away to save money; skim through my phone while walking to work, thumbing through jobs on Indeed; zone out at the computer, type some words, type more words; go to the gym and complete my routine of leg day or arm day; get sweaty and smell the garlic I ate from lunch seeping through my wet shirt; speak to no one, especially the grunters; drive home while listening to Discover Weekly on Spotify; shower; eat dinner, usually a protein shake, go to sleep, and do it over again. Sure, I rode my bike on the weekends and that was fun, but it was still routine.
I felt dead inside. I didn’t enjoy much. I tried things in hopes of learning to like it, but it was all forced. All I wanted to do was
sleep for two and a half days. Outside, I was stuck. I was stuck in a job I hated, stuck with a boss I despised, stuck at my mother’s house, and stuck with a deadness that grew from inside out. I wanted to leave everything and everyone, but I didn’t know how to do that. I wanted to make a rash decision, but I wanted it planned.
See, there are people who can just go and do it. Then there are people like me: I want to know all 5 W’s before I commit to anything: who, what, when, where, and why. If they aren’t answered, then I’m not going. And I suppose it’s a good thing to be a planner: I’ve never been refused by a hostel because they had no room or missed a plane because of poor planning. Then again, escaping isn’t akin to planning. Well, that’s a lie: convicts planned to escape prison constantly and the ones with the best plans escaped successfully.
My friend, Cider, felt the same way about his situation: awful job, awful roommates, over it all. I met him when I was in University in Ireland. I once mentioned to him that I never traveled Europe the way I wanted to while I lived in Ireland. I didn’t want to admit that I had the opportunity, but chickened out. I cared too much about the cost.
It’s interesting how the choices we make every day, even seemingly innocuous ones have a butterfly effect and down the road, when we reflect, we realize we’re where we’re at because of choices. We make choices every minute. I chose every morning to work at a place I despised. I chose to work there the next day and the next and the next. I chose to let it destroy me.
I chose to date assholes like Booze and I chose to believe he was a better person than he really was. I chose to feel dead.
Cider told me to list all the places I’d like to go. I wrote out the typical tourist areas: Scotland, Belgium, Germany, Switzerland, Czech Republic, and Italy. Cider had been to them all. I was jealous.
He suggested Slovenia, Poland, Austria, and Hungary. I said okay. Days went by, the research and planning continued, and I was starting to convince myself this was how I was going to change my life. I’d give my job and my boss The Finger and assumed all these opportunities would open up for me because I was doing something, dammit. I was no longer “living for the weekend.” This was the ultimate “YOLO” because I didn’t have a plan for when I came back. Not yet at least. There were talks at my job of hiring me in a
different position, one I’d create myself. I asked the CTO for a reference letter. He refused to write one because he believed I’d be coming back. He said, “I’ll write you one when you’re back.”
People didn’t believe I could leave. I didn’t believe I could leave.
Cider figured out our train route: Plane from Dublin to Edinburgh. Plane to Brussels. Bus to Bruges. Train to Berlin. Krakow. Prague. Budapest. Bled. Vienna. Interlaken. Rome.
I found hostels. Castle Rock Hostel in Edinburgh. Snuffel Backpacker Hostel in Bruges. Pegasus Hostel in Berlin. Greg & Tom Beer Hostel in Krakow. Clown & Bard Hostel in Prague. Minoo House in Budapest. Castle Hostel 1004 in Bled. Seven Vienna in Vienna. Funny Farm in Interlaken. Sunshine Hostel in Rome.
Then the costs started adding up. Train: $1,000, hostels:
$700, airplane: $700, food: $500, attractions. How the fuck was I going to pay for all this? Gofundme.
Gofundme requires legitimate causes for raising money. I wracked my brain trying to come up with a legitimate reason for people giving me money and all I could come up with was, “I fucking hate my job and want to leave. I want the cushion of having money so when I come back and not have a job for a bit, I don’t have to worry.”
It wasn’t a legit reason to ask people for money. I came up with a research project. I’d see how safe it was for women in these…developed countries. I was kidding myself, but I also convinced my ego that sure, plenty of people would want to fund my “research project.” After a couple people questioning my “research project,” I opted for a project I’d follow through with: writing a novel.
I raised $200 of the $5,000. $20 from Julie. $30 from Sarah.
$50 from AJ. $100 from Jon. I was feeling a little hopeless, but I already committed and was too prideful to admit that I was nervous and wanted my shitty-job-security blanket, so there was no turning back now.
I knew it was only for a month (maybe longer) and I knew we were going to constantly be on the move and not sitting around,
but I’m a creature of habit. I worked out 7 days a week: strength training four of those days and some form of cardio all seven.
I had an irrational fear of losing my muscle, my strength, and my endurance. It had taken too long to get to the shape I was in. I didn’t want to lose it all in a month’s time. If we were staying in hotels with gyms, that’d be another story, but we were sleeping in hostels. It’s not like I was going to find a Smith machine on the cobbled streets of Amsterdam. I tried to come up with a plan to stay in tip-top shape, but I wasn’t sure how I was going to do that.
Squats with my backpack? Bring a jump rope? Bands? Run everywhere?
I felt ludicrous for thinking it, but I was legitimately concerned about it. Elephant Rock was June 6 – 100 miles on my bike and I wanted to be prepared. I had reached a point where exercising was my life. I didn’t want to do anything else. It made me feel good, sure, but jesus, give it a rest, right?
I escaped because I was afraid.
There were (still are) a multitude of things that frightened me, but what worried me most was the future. I hated that I couldn’t see into my future. The unknown drove me mad. My biggest struggle in life was living in the present. I was always trying to be one step ahead, but I always seemed to trip instead. I knew if I continued to step ahead faster than my feet, I’d continue to fall. I worried that I would fall so low that it’d be impossible to stand up. I didn’t want to reach that point.
I was teetering on the ledge. I was the lonely lady standing at the cliff, on the jutting rock on the Aran Islands, in Galway. There wasn’t a fence; just a sheer drop into the grey waves crashing against limestone. Peering over the ledge imaging the fall, my stomach dropping, closing my eyes to avoid watching my impending death and plop into the water. The wind caressing my body, inching me closer to my demise. That’s how fucking close I was to the ledge. Also in real life once, but I laid down on the rock because I didn’t actually want to get swept off my feet and crashing into the water 100 feet below me.
We are always too afraid to do things for fear of repercussions. We do things to follow what’s expected of us from the outside. I did what was expected of me:
Be responsible
Be selfless
Put others first
Work to pay bills
Pay bills
Say ‘yes’ when people need me
Be nicer
Listen & engage
Give great customer service
Don’t hurt people’s feelings
I stayed at my shitty job because that’s what was expected of me: to work. No parent wants to admit to their friends or colleagues their child is a freeloader. I worked because I had to. I had to pay for my health insurance, my student loans, gas, groceries, and my car loan. Not working leads to debt and other stuff I’m afraid to find out.
I tried to make sure others were happy and stuck my sadness in corners of rooms that collected dust. No one paid attention to my bullshit because they were focused on getting their own happiness sorted. I spent my early 20s taking care of a very close friend. I didn’t have to, but I offered to help because I cared. Quickly, the gratitude became expectation and the rock I once was grounded into sand. I was worn down after that. Three years later, I still was.
I needed to quit the soul-sucking, prison-like job and go to Europe. Why Europe? Because I sought adventure, but I craved comfort. I wanted to make Krakauer’s “radical change,” but I needed safety. I was in a desperate search to find my niche, my drive, my self, and it felt damn near impossible.
