I move. A lot. In the last 11 years since graduating college, I migrated to Los Angeles, Pennsylvania, Nashville, New York City, and back to Pennsylvania again. All very ironic considering how much I dreaded switching houses so often in my town growing up.
I used to chalk it up to the annoyingly restless spirit of a millennial who didn’t know what she really wanted — constantly moving and switching jobs, chasing after an illusion of happiness that doesn’t exist, following a lifetime of muddling through the murky waters of mental illness.
As I’ve settled more into myself, I’ve realized that’s the version that Hard on Herself Liv likes to spin. Hard on Herself Liv — or HOH Liv, as I like to call her (apt, as I am also Hard of Hearing) — is the same one who has spent years quietly shaming me for things that I now know are part of being neurodivergent and mentally ill. She’s the one who whispers in my ear that I’m lazy when I can’t get off the couch to fold the laundry, the one who tells me I’m being irrational as I grit my teeth, clench my fists, and try to make it through the overwhelming dysregulating experience at the grocery store.
She’s my oldest friend, and unfortunately, my cruelest. Thankfully, she’s not as loud as she once was, and I can keep her quiet if I really focus.
The actual truth of it all that I’ve come to realize is that my needs and my wants are constantly at war with each other, always butting heads, never seeming to come to an agreement, leaving me confused and spinning out.
What I have always wanted is to live in a place that bustles, stimulates, and invigorates the synapses in my brain. A place that leads me to chase adventure and inspiration.
What I need is quiet and stillness, an environment that calms the cacophony in my brain that accompanies neurodivergence. A place that will keep my nervous system below a 5, instead of the 348394893 it seems intent on operating at whenever it sets foot in a major metropolitan area.
It’s a weird thing, to feel like the different parts of you don’t align with each other—like puzzle pieces that look like they fit but have been haphazardly shoved together, forced to make space for each other.
Sometimes I’ve been fortunate enough to find somewhere that gives me a little bit of both, almost enough to satisfy before I was off chasing the next thing. I’ve regretted none of my moves; they all served a purpose, were once a dream and a hope, and I’ve made it my lot in life to live without regrets.
If I never ran down a TV writing career in Los Angeles or lived out my fantasy of being a New Yorker, how would I have arrived here in this moment of time, in this charming little blue collegiate pocket of Pennsylvania just outside my hometown, where I know I’m supposed to be?
At least for now.
Like many other millennials and Gen-Xers, I delighted in watching frothy soap operas from a young age, plopping myself down in front of the TV next to my mom on a sick day off from school or a rainy summer day. I watched three semi-regularly: Days of Our Lives, General Hospital (my mom’s pick), and Passions (RIP) before I tapered off into mainly being a GH fan, catching repeats of that day’s episode on the cable channel SoapNet (RIP).
Tragically, with the continued rise of streaming, soaps have fallen by the wayside, with cancellations growing. I myself dropped off GH somewhere in my mid-teens and have rarely tuned into soaps since — until a couple of years ago when my close friend/then roommate and DOOL (or Days, depending on your preferred nickname) superfan got me watching with her again.
Since then, I’ve also begun watching GH again after eagerly awaiting the return of an old favorite of mine. It seems I’m not the only one having a soap moment either — beloved primetime soap Melrose Place is said to be getting the reboot treatment AND CBS just announced a new soap featuring an all-Black cast, called The Gates.
Soaps are renowned for their ridiculous plot lines and over-the-top acting — which makes it the perfect escape, in my opinion — but they’re also home to some of the hardest-working people in entertainment. I hope this moment in time is proof that daytime and primetime sudsy icons like Deidre Hall and Heather Locklear will always have a home on television.
Sometimes (well…many times) when writing is hard or I’m in too much of a rut to find time for it, I still find myself grappling for a creative outlet — something that’s easy with minimal effort but still pleasantly zaps that little spot in my brain that craves the process of making.
When I find myself in this place, I turn to two things, which are different sides of the same coin: art journaling and wall collaging.
I began wall collaging in 2013, on the back of my closet door in Los Angeles. I’ve made it a point to make one in every place I’ve lived in since, expanding to take over entire walls with magazine clippings, family polaroids, positive feedback from my college professors on my first scripts, letters from friends, newspaper cutouts of articles I wrote from my time at the Sun-Gazette, and more.
Some things carry over from place to place, but I’m always adding, removing, changing. Impermanent scrapbooks.
Last week, my partner and I went on a date night to a charming place downtown called Trevina, a restaurant with self-pour beers, wine taps, and small plates. I rarely ever drink alcohol, for reasons that are too boring and uninteresting to get into here, but I’ll always partake in one of my only real vices: Diet Coke.
DC rarely lets me down, but true addicts know there’s a difference in quality from restaurant to restaurant (nothing hits like a McDonald’s DC), the form it comes in (soda fountain > can > bottle), etc.
My Trevina DC came out already in a glass, so while I can’t prove it, my taste buds tell me it originally came from a bottle, which means we’re already operating at suboptimal DC standards here.
Unfortunately, it just didn’t hit the way I hoped it would.
Based on my judging criteria (fizziness, spiciness level, temperature, and the amount of ice), I have given Trevina’s DC a paltry 4/10.
That’s all for now! If you’d like to reach me to chat or let me know what you think, you can reach me on Twitter, Instagram, Tumblr, or shoot me an email at livjrowe@gmail.com.
XOXO Gossip Girl
‘til next time,
Liv
omg i looooove the wall collage!! & this: "It’s a weird thing, to feel like the different parts of you don’t align with each other—like puzzle pieces that look like they fit but have been haphazardly shoved together, forced to make space for each other." yes. i often wish i fit perfectly into a box of interests or desires, and have felt like, bc i don't, i won't ever truly fit in anywhere. like i have to be 100% x or 100% y in order to be a legitimate x or y. mostly "if i don't dedicate my life to writing then i'm not really a writer." but i guess that's really just a weird limiting belief that HOH linds made up :')