I can barely remember to buy dish soap let alone contemplate humanity or be inspired by Anaïs Nin’s diaries. Now, after many years of demanding yet uninspiring jobs, multiple heartbreaks, move after move, financial woes, I’m quite frankly exhausted. I used to consider myself creative - a good writer, poetic, passionate, curious. Most of my nights are spent alone with my cat (cue the cliché). I have a few close girlfriends, for which I am grateful, but life keeps getting busier and our conversations are now months apart. While I make friends easily, I’ve left most of my friends behind in each city I’ve moved from while they’ve continued to grow deep roots: marriages, homeownership, career growth, community, families, children. I have no family nearby, no long-term relationship built on years of mutual growth and shared experiences, no children.
I have no career milestones and don’t care for my line of work all that much anyway, but now it’s my lifeline, as I only have enough savings to buy a hotel room for two nights. I have no wealth, and I’m now saddled with enough debt from all of my moves, poor decisions, and lack of career drive that I may never be able to retire. We moved to a new town (my fourth new city), created a home together, and then nose-dived into a traumatic breakup that launched me to my fifth and current city and who-knows-what-number job.įor all these years of quick changes and rash decisions, which I once rationalized as adventurous, exploratory, and living an “original life,” I have nothing to show for it. My most hopeful and longest lasting relationship (three and a half years, whoopee) ended two years ago.
All my friends are wasted serial#
I was also the poster child for serial monogamy.
My 20s and early 30s have been a twisting crisscross of moves all over the West Coast, a couple of brief stints abroad, multiple jobs in a mediocre role with no real upward track. I’m a 35-year-old woman, and I have nothing to show for it.
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