I’ve been crying a lot lately.
I find myself sitting on the couch in my living room, folding laundry between Zoom meetings, the U.S. Open on in the background, my aging hands in the foreground, and I break into tears. I’m not sobbing because Zverev won or because my hands remind me of my grandmother’s, though slightly less waxy, veiny and spotted. It’s something bigger, something deeper, something I can’t quite put my finger on.
I’m on the 405 on my way to pick up my daughter from school, stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic, and again I begin to cry. I cry on my way to work and as I sit on the warm sand in Malibu looking out at the sea. I cry during yoga, as I hike Temescal Canyon, as I wait in line for a $22 smoothie at Erewhon. These episodes have been creeping up on me for months now. Little by little, they have invaded my head space and my nervous system. I’m at a loss for words — I cry.
It could be a number of things. My husband and I have been arguing nonstop about emotional labor and my ongoing attempts to decenter him in our marriage. It’s exhausting and fruitless. I’m no longer writing. I have a UTI, again. But these things are too easy, too obvious. I try to snap out of it. Meditation, sound baths, breathwork — nothing helps.
And then, out of the blue, I get a call from my landlord: She’s selling the duplex, and we may have to move. The potential of being forced to leave rent-controlled, under-market housing in Westwood, a safe neighborhood on the Westside in a good school district, should push me over the edge. Tears should be running down my face in torrents, but they aren’t. I find myself feeling happier than I’ve felt in months. We might have to move. We might have to move. We can leave. We’ll have to leave! I smile from ear to ear and start dreaming of another life in another place. And then it hits me. I’ve fallen out of love with L.A.
People hate L.A., so falling out of love with it might make sense to you. It’s not a true city, it’s too spread out, there are no seasons, the traffic is dreadful, they say with smug looks on their faces as they leave in flocks to colder places. But I don’t hate L.A. I love it; I always have. I’ve loved L.A. since I was a child growing up in Orange County, a brown kid in a sea of white kids who felt unseen and alone. L.A. is my city. It’s people who look like me in thrift stores on Melrose. It buzzes with energy. It’s dirt and grit shoved up against beauty and splendor. It’s real — it allows space for complicated things to exist side by side. It’s my dad’s family in East L.A., chicharrones, an ice cream truck and menudo after church on Sundays. It’s my mom’s family in Alhambra, strawberry jam on fried chicken, the Dodgers and a Boy George poster on the back of a bedroom door. L.A. is everything, was everything. L.A. was once my savior, my only hope.
So, what changed? A lot.
I’ve been married for 10 years now, I have a kid, I’ve lost people I love, my literary agent fired me, the wildfires are out of control and it’s getting hotter — all things that surely have affected my love affair with this city.
My identity has shifted, and I feel off-kilter. I’m no longer a hopeful young girl, dreaming of life in the City of Angels. I’m older. Wiser? Maybe. I’ve failed a bunch. I’m not who I thought I’d be. L.A. isn’t what I thought it’d be either. Can we survive these truths? I want to …
I want to fall back in love. But how?
I light a candle in front of Santa Barbara, the patron saint of my family, and ask her to guide me. I place pink gemstones on my heart chakra as I sleep. I begin spending time in the moonlight. I read “Nightbitch.” I drive through downtown Los Angeles at night with my windows down and the sunroof open as I did with my aunt and uncle when I was a child. The lights are magic; there is something in the air.
I eat a French dip sandwich and a pickled egg that stains my fingertips purple at Philippe’s and feel satiated. I take my daughter to the Self-Realization Fellowship Lake Shrine. We feed the ducks and the turtles. A swan nips at her outstretched hand. She laughs and runs around the lake. I watch her and see myself as a child. I write this short piece and actually enjoy the process. I make arroz con pollo and cry because it tastes like my childhood and reminds me of my grandma. But it’s a different cry than before. It feels different. Like I’m taking something back.
I decide to make the city mine again.
I begin to avoid the people, places and things that irk me. I go analog (for the most part). I stay firm in my boundaries. I am more present than I’ve ever been. I wake up a little bit earlier each morning to look at my daughter’s perfect face as she sleeps beside me. I listen to the birds chirping outside my window. I kiss my husband because he buys me cheese and figs. We argue slightly less but recover and repair faster. I start taking the streets and avoiding the freeways. I make a promise to find one thing about the city to be grateful for each day: shade, In-N-Out, free museums, sunshine, the ocean, kind neighbors (thank you, Mary and Paul), walkable neighborhoods, the public library, reproductive freedom.
In the midst of rebuilding my gratitude, I begin to remember who I am. The city abides. She becomes my ally, giving me cool breezes, green lights, a healthy dose of vitamin D. I’m lighter, freer, and then one day, many days since my crying began, I feel hope pulsing in the back of my brain, and I know I’m right where I’m supposed to be. I love L.A., and L.A. loves me.
So even though my joints ache and my body slips into perimenopause, even though my marriage is going through a rough patch and my creative practice has seemingly died, I know I’ll be OK. In the words of Anthony Kiedis of the Red Hot Chili Peppers, “At least I have her love, the city, she loves me. Lonely as I am. Together we cry.”
The author is a teacher and a writer. She lives in Westwood with her daughter and her husband.
L.A. Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the L.A. area, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $400 for a published essay. Email LAAffairs@latimes.com. You can find submission guidelines here. You can find past columns here.
