Danielle Nelson is a practicing therapist and Licensed Clinical Social Worker (LCSW) who focuses on sexual health and wellness, trauma and recovery, self-esteem and resilience building, life transitions, and general mental health concerns. Though Danielle is a trained professional, this column is not a substitute for advice or care provided by your licensed medical or health care professional.
No one ever asks me about New Orleans in a clinical setting, and that’s probably a good thing. This month, I learned that if you write in to ask me about New Orleans, I’m going to find it difficult to obtain objectivity; I’m getting personal. So, as New Orleans embarks on the cruellest of her seasons, here’s an honest question and a biased answer to kick us off.
My husband and I have lived in and loved New Orleans for the last 23 years. Through these two-plus decades we’ve seen it all, from Katrina to the rebirth era, festivals aplenty, and just the general everyday life that defines being a New Orleans resident. As we have gotten older, we’ve started to become worn down by the annual hurricane dread and ever-rising costs of living for insurance and taxes. We don’t know where to be for our so-called “twilight years,” here in New Orleans or elsewhere, near our hometowns in Appalachia, where it’s generally less stressful and cheaper but also wildly predictable. We have options for both, but can’t seem to choose what’s best for our collective psyche and health of spirit.
Anxiety, avoidance, dread, flashbacks, and fantasies of getting the hell out of here? It must be hurricane season. Not to dismiss or downplay the reason for your query—I’ll get to that—but I’d be remiss if I didn’t point out how many of us experience heightened sensitivity and irritability at the start of hurricane season. Why wouldn’t we? The coming months add an undeserved layer of emotional stress along with tedious and seemingly endless emergency preparation. I remember just a few months ago, standing knee deep in the snow in the middle of my street, happily carousing with neighbors when someone had the nerve to ask, “Didn’t it snow the winter before Katrina?” It did. I’d have to pull Margaret Orr out of her well-deserved retirement to get you a solid answer as to whether or not that’s relevant, but at the time, I can assure you it felt ominous.
For hurricane season, the best way to gain a sense of order and take some power back is to manage the things you do have control over: having an emergency plan, stocking up on the necessary supplies, and taking care to prepare your home. I clenched my jaw while typing those words, remembering that every flashlight I own needs batteries. Speaking of—let those memories of hurricanes past serve a purpose. What worked? What would you do differently this time? Talking to neighbors can be a great resource. My neighbor once told me she grabs extra bottled water every other time she goes to the store starting in June. This way she’s stocked and doesn’t have to cut into the rations on shelves closer to the storm.
Now that we’ve acknowledged the “annual hurricane dread” that might be driving your question, I have to admit I can’t answer it for you. What I can tell you is that my 2009 departure from New Orleans for San Diego felt inevitable. The grant that was funding my position at a local arts nonprofit was ending, and I’d always wanted to go to graduate school. The timing seemed right, and I’d grown envious of my friends who lived elsewhere—in cities that didn’t fight against themselves quite so hard. At first, I liked the order and structure San Diego offered. I respected it and found comfort in always knowing exactly what was coming next. It wasn’t until month six that my inner New Orleanian began to feel the pangs of homesickness. Even though I denied it for years, the signs were always there—the awkward void I felt when trying to talk to the person next to me, or the confusing way my new friends couldn’t understand my innate desire to incorporate revelry into the mundane. Why wouldn’t our end-of-finals party have a costumed theme? And why don’t I hear more brass on the street if it’s 74 degrees all damn year?
Before San Diego, New Orleans was the only city I’d ever lived in, making it my baseline for comparison to all other cities, my touchstone. Of the 13 years I spent away, I came back every year, sometimes multiple times a year. At first I’d only come back for family events; then I found myself coming home just to be in my city. When I hit the 10-year expat mark, I started coming alone and not telling a soul. About two years ago, I came back to stay for a month. I’d just driven down from my place in Chicago and found myself lightly dissociating in the deli section, stressed and completely out of sorts when the voice next to me announced, “My doctor says I can’t eat chitlins anymore.” Coming to, I looked to my left at the lady making eye contact with me. “Cholesterol,” she said. I smiled, nodded, and watched in admiration as she picked up the chitlins, put them in her buggy and added, “But we only live once, baby.”
There’s a hesitancy in your inquiry that I understand because I’ve lived it. “Wildly predictable” might be just what you need… for a while. Twenty-three years is a long time. Maybe it’s what you need long-term. Maybe a change of scenery and the chance to remember what it feels like to live somewhere else for a while would do you good. Just like any relationship, sometimes you need time apart in order to better define what’s working and what’s not. It’s hard to truly see something if you’re too close to it. Just like an object that floods your field of vision, details and perspective get lost when you’re submerged. Having said that, I do have a theory that a lot of New Orleanians are emotionally enmeshed with their city. There’s a visceral connection that comes from living in a city that punches as hard as it embraces. All of this to say: If you decide to leave New Orleans for Appalachia or elsewhere and you find your psyche and spirit need a boost, you can always come back.
If you need to speak to someone right away, call 504-269-COPE (2673). The COPE crisis line provides free, confidential crisis counseling, suicide prevention and information, and mental health referral services 24 hours a day, 7 days a week.
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illustrations by Romey Petite
