Choices by Jessica Uhler

A narrator reflects on the presence, absence, and consequences of making decisions for themselves.

When I was little, I wasn’t allowed to put holes in the walls. While friends of mine had magazine collages all over their rooms or their favorite bands hung behind their doors, I had pristine, clean walls. I don’t know if it was that my parents were concerned about who would move in after us (they still live there) or if it was more about it looking nice. But a reason was never given, and I didn’t ask. 

“Don’t ruin it, because it will never be the same,” echoes when I think about my childhood. So the walls stayed whole, and my personality stayed paused. Sure, the ability to put things on the walls was prohibited, but my desire to do so was always there. I would secretly squirrel away things for a future me. 

I was buying stuff for a personality I didn’t have yet, but knew I wanted. I had a pile for later. A pink Himalayan salt lamp, big towels because standard ones were too small, a whale-shaped sponge holder for dishes that I also had but never used, and so much art. One of the pieces I had for almost a decade was a poster of Frankenstein's monster that I never took out of its plastic sleeve. I bought it at the original Amoeba Music. It was just the monster’s face in black and white. I felt connected to him, a creature made up of all these second-hand parts. I loved it even though I had never unwrapped it. But I was just happy to add it to the pile in the corner of my childhood room, proof that I wanted to get to know myself. Things are easy to attach a personality to. I needed tangible proof that I was real. 

I didn’t move out of my childhood home until my mid-twenties. Which is wild for me to think about now, but you only know what you know, and I knew that I was scared. Did you know people are born with only two fears? The fear of falling and loud noise, so I’ve always been curious how fear came to run most of my decisions. 

My motto was no big moves and we will be safe, but that way of thinking means no movement. I also recently realized, while listening to the Jessica Simpson audiobook, that I was fearing the regret I might feel if a bad decision was made. So, I made a deal with the universe at twenty-five that if I was put on a house team at an improv theater (a vulnerable admission), I would do the scariest thing I could imagine doing and leave home. 

Growing up, there wasn’t room for decision-making. The house was too small and the family was too big. There were many reasons that I came up with not to leave, and I knew that once I left, there would literally be no room to come back to. The deal had to be almost impossible, so I wouldn’t have to take on the responsibility of choice. 

Choice, while freeing for most, was the most terrifying thing I could think of. I didn’t want the responsibility. Responsibility for me is where fault goes, where a problem is rooted. But the universe accepted my deal and got me out of my childhood home and up to Los Angeles, California. 

I thought the first year I lived in Los Angeles was the hardest year of my life, but I know now it wasn’t. LA, as the locals call it, is only two hours from where I’m from, but for me, those two hours were life-changing. I was confused, nervous, and scared, but I had never been happier. I was deciding what was in my fridge (nothing), and when I came home (late). There was so much freedom that I still wasn’t taking advantage of, but I was going on walks. I love a walk. I never knew that. LA was providing me with space. A woman I barely knew told me she would burn me to the ground if I slept with her ex-boyfriend. It didn’t matter to me. She didn’t know I had only kissed three people in my life and was toying with my own identity. She saw me as a harlot. This was new; I had never been a harlot before. 

I finally had a room to decorate. It was overwhelming and impossible. Best believe that after moving to LA, one of the first things I wanted was a beautiful gallery wall. The old doctrine of no hole in the wall was thick in the air, but it was almost reckless how loose I was with the hammer. I got a huge picture of a bunch of cats and hung it up. And then after a couple of days, I realized I don't love cats enough for this type of behavior. My boyfriend at the time did. He loved cats, and unfortunately, I did not. But I was happy to learn that about myself. 

I was coming from a place where it was almost like there couldn’t be any proof that I was ever real, or it was easier not to be. I fully embraced not being in the room and would dissociate with a tree I could see from outside my childhood window. But I was now in a new place, with no tree to attach to. While unboxing my stuff, I found my Frankenstein’s monster poster that was still wrapped. It stayed that way, even though I now had space; there were self-inflicted rules I gave myself. I didn’t want to make the strong choice of putting “my” things in my new home. I was living with two other people, and I was sure they had choices they wanted to make, so I didn’t even pitch it to my roommates. 

There's part of me that thinks maybe I wanted to keep it safe from judgment, or I didn't want to feel dumb for hoping to connect or even to be seen by it. It followed me around until someone I was living with in a different future house said, “just throw it out,” and I did. They didn’t know how important it was to me, and honestly, I didn’t know how important it was either. So out with the trash it went. It’s been years since that happened, and it’s funny cause I'm not sure if Frank was my vibe, but it makes me sad that I don't know. I’ve gotten better at knowing myself better since this time, I started making my mark on who I am, and I’ve figured out a few things. My favorite color is green, I don’t love eating meat, I don’t like loud noises, and I like being near water. 

I used to think it was my soul's purpose to take it on the chin. I don’t know how else to put it, but I very much would say I would rather someone be mean to me because I can take it. An old catch phrase of mine was “bury me.” I thought the best thing I could do was nothing, let the world move around me, and just hop on and not ask questions. LA was quick to tell me it loved this about me. It was like everyone could smell it on me, and to be fair, I think I used to waft my people pleasing around like a pie in a windowsill. This way of living is a different kind of stuck, one that is not sustainable. 

I think LA might be a place where people come who either know exactly what they want or who want to know what they might want. It gives you the space to explore, even if you don't take it (I never did). I do believe time is just happening quicker here, mainly due to the lack of seasons, but if you’re open, the wind will push you in the right direction. I can’t say I'm the best choice maker (I am a Libra, another thing I learned in LA). It’s funny because I didn’t technically make the decision to move here, or for so long, I didn’t want to claim it as a choice. I used to say it was the universe, but now I’ll admit that I knew I wanted a different life than I had, and LA seemed to be calling. Everyone who moves across the country or the world, I think, how brave you must have been to want to know yourself better. I’m happy I’ve gotten to experience life in a place that moves fast, because it forced me off pause. LA is a reminder to me that all you have to do is claim something for it to start being real. People are out here saying they invented the camera, and they will get no follow-up questions. It's crazy what confidence can do.

I look around my walls now, and I am surrounded by choices. A framed picture of Rick Moranis from Lil’ Shop of Horrors, mounted skateboards that my dad made, a bookshelf a friend helped me design and hang, a pink light-up Christmas tree that has become a year-round staple, and tucked away in the corner of the apartment, a recently purchased black and white Frankenstein poster, still in its shrinkwrap. Who knows if he will ever find his way onto the wall; that choice is still mine to make.