Life got in my way. I look at my
blog and cannot believe that my last entry was in January of 2015. My entries
had been sporadic at best for a couple of years. That was because I had landed
in a place where the thoughts that were front and center were such that, I knew
if I wrote about them -- wrote my truth, that I risked alienating people in
ways I sensed I would regret. A writing coach might have egged me on but I
wasn't ready to go there.
There was also a lot going on in my
life with elderly relatives who needed my time and attention. That's a subject
for another entry.
In May of that year, I turned 62.
Although I had not anticipated that this particular birthday would have any
impact on my internal state, it did in a very big way. Suddenly, I had options
relative to the workplace.
I. could. retire.
The recognition of that was
riveting. My job in a university, as director of a department that was
integral to the functioning of that school, was very, very stressful. While
there were elements of the job that I very much enjoyed and many people with
whom I worked that I valued, increasingly I felt just plain worn out.
There were many external factors at
play -- the withering of needed resources as a result of the economic climate,
increased competition from at least a dozen other schools vying for those
limited resources, the constant demand to produce more with less and years of
walking on eggshells with someone at the top that had demoralized me in ways were
not healing.
I felt in a constant state of
agitation. I had stopped answering my office phone because I desperately needed
to insert time and space between myself and those on the other end who were
always demanding something from me. I had begun to look at everyone who walked
into my office with a battle-ready wariness, expecting to be accosted and
dumped on. A particularly horrifying painting from junior high art class kept
coming to mind – The Flaying of Marsyas by Titan. I felt like I was being flayed… that people
were picking away at me a little at a time.
Previous to turning 62, I had
planned, kinda, sorta, to retire in the summer of 2017. My second-in-command,
who had been by my side for 15 years there, and for 6 years in a previous job,
and I dreamed about exiting at the same time -- neither of us wanted to imagine
life there without the other. I soldiered on. Two years to go and we would jump
ship together.
A series of life-altering events
transpired during that summer with the afore-mentioned elderly relatives. And
summer is traditionally a very, very busy and stressful time in my workplace.
Preparation for the upcoming academic year typically requires very long days
and nights (not to mention weekends) and generates significant anxiety and
sudden deluges of tears. There is too much to do and too little time in which
to do it, even when one is efficient and competent. The calendar is a relentless task-master.
September is coming. Students are returning. We must be ready.
One particular week, returning from
a weekend of attending to my relatives’ needs, feeling like the air was being
squeezed out of me by invisible hands circling my throat, I had a realization.
It was:
I don’t have it “in me” to do this
more than one more time.
Could I possibly engineer an earlier
exit? My mind spun in its characteristic way with a new idea. Money would
be the biggest issue. I had quite a bit saved for retirement, but I also had a
co-op with 13 more years of a hefty mortgage and monthly maintenance fees that were
about to be higher than the mortgage. And like many co-ops, the board was threatening
a series of capital improvements that would require extra assessments for owners.
On a fixed income, that could be catastrophic.
So for the first time since I had
moved there in 1984, I contemplated leaving my beloved NYC. After considering and rejecting several
options, my swirling brain landed on moving back home to the small town where I
grew up. Previously, going back had been less likely than, oh – say, my
becoming a brain surgeon or rock star. But my perspective about the place had slowly
been undergoing a change. “Home” was no longer the stifling prison without
possibilities I had fled. Now, I could imagine living there and being content.
Moving home would also eliminate
another huge stressor by rendering unnecessary the twice-monthly trips I was
making to care for my brother, David. For ten years, since our mother died, I
had been on the road at 2:30 a.m. on alternate Saturdays, arriving in Batavia
in time to pick up my brother for breakfast. And then, without skipping a beat
(or taking a nap), we would go on about our day -- running errands, going bowling,
seeing movies, eating out, doing things for our aunt/uncle. I would collapse
late that night, sleep like the dead, and get up on Sunday to take him out for
breakfast again and another round of activities, before driving back to New
York City late in the afternoon. I was exhausted. I had so many close calls
drifting off on the road that I am convinced I am alive today only because my
mother in heaven whispered WAKE UP in my ear a dozen times every trip.
I started stalking realtor.com.
Stay tuned for more of the journey.
