My first name spelled backwards is nomad.  Because of this, my Sicilian grandmother initially called me by my middle name, Christopher.  She worried my first name would somehow lead me to a homeless lifestyle, one where I’d wander aimlessly without a place to call my own.  She only reluctantly stopped calling me Christopher when my mom, fearing I’d get confused, snapped and demanded I be called by my first name.

In hindsight, it looks like my grandmother was onto something…

In my 41 years, I’ve moved 29 times.  Noteworthy cities I’ve called home include: Chicago, New York City, Honolulu, San Francisco, and San Diego.  And within each location, I’ve moved multiple times.  I’m not in the military, never been evicted, nor am I evading the law.  It’s only lately that I’ve come to accept, corny as it may sound, I’ve been running from me.

Despite my many moves, I’ve always been a homebound guy and a bona fide dreamer.  I am an only child and was a latchkey kid growing up in the eighties.  As a teenager, I was more than content, and came to prefer, spending time alone with an Anne Rice novel, dancing to Madonna, or witting ghost stories.  I enjoyed traveling inward over the outdoors.  There, I could be anything or anyone, unearth treasures not found on a football field or at a school bonfire.  It provided me shelter from bullies,  helped me envision a less awkward – more extroverted, jet setting, and socially wonderful – me.

Of course, back in the eighties I naively thought I’d become that outgoing charmer with the devil-may-care attitude.  But instead my lonesome inclinations only manifested.  Although I like to think I’m less awkward (he types whilst wearing Marvin Martian pajamas), I have remained a daydreaming introvert.  I never really emerged from my cocoon. I only fell deeper into the silk enshrouding me.

At times, I worry that I am borderline agoraphobic, like my grandmother who seldom left her house later in life.  I don’t like crowds, despise traffic, and avoid social situations when I can.  Unlike some agoraphobics, however, I love open spaces.  Sign me up for a sprawling meadow or an empty road with a spacious horizon any day.  It’s people that leave me anxious, feeling distracted and guarded.

Recommendation: On the subject of living with agoraphobia, I highly recommend ArLynn Presser’s blog.  After experiencing years of panic attacks whenever she left her home, ArLynn set out to visit all 325 of her facebook friends in 13 different countries.  Her blog is a great read, a herculean feat, and helped open my eyes to some of my behaviors.  I applaud ArLynn’s bravery.

I like to consider myself an optimistic person. But somewhere along the way in my lifetime, my perception of the human race began to change.  The transition was so gradual I’m not sure when it began or where it will end.  But people became louder, they felt more intrusive, petty, and judgmental… not fun to be around.

I don’t enjoy feeling defensive.  It contradicts my rose-tinted hopes for humanity, but it’s the reality I fight whenever I step out my door.  As a result, I feel out of place in a crowd and become uptight, like a prude at Marti Gras without a bead to my name; everyone is topless and drunk, and I’m pissed about the puke on my shoes.

Perhaps I conditioned myself to be this way.  I’m not so different from when I was a teenager.  I still partake in escapism, fleeing off to more accepting, ingratiating, and agreeable dreamscapes; it may be imaginary, but it’s more inviting at times than reality, where the collective chatter seems increasingly loud and hostile.

Given my social discomfort and homebound ways, why have I lived in some of the most populated (and subsequently expensive) cities in the United States?  Short answer: for love and money.  My hometowns provided me the highest wages and security; they allowed me the freedom to live openly as a gay man.  For as exhausting as I find breaking the ice, pretending to be someone I’m not is unbearable.  Wearing masks for the blind is insulting and degrading.  I’d sooner brave a mob and feel awkward than live a lie.

In retrospect, I’ve moved as much as I have because I’m running from the reserved, introverted, homebound part of me that’s like my grandmother, who suffered increasingly from mental illness with age.  I’m still chasing the fantasy of the man I’ll become.  In the process, I’ve developed “grass is greener” syndrome, where I imagine a better, more liberating life awaiting me on the horizon, a place where reality and dreams coexist regardless of who you are.

Perhaps my lonesome disposition is in the stars.  My grandmother and I also share the same birthday.  We are both Tauri, an astrological sign known to be grounded… But I don’t hold much trust in astrology.  We share a birthday with Jay Leno, Ann Margaret, and Saddam Hussein, and they all seem (or appeared to be) outgoing.

Whichever the case, I call the introverted side of me – the guy writing this blog, wondering who I am – Christopher.  He is a homebody, a borderline agoraphobic… a man cocooned within a nomad.

Maybe mom was right to worry I’d get confused about my names.  Or maybe, like my grandmother, I just worry too much.

I need to be more like Madonna.  I need to dance more, care less about what others may think.  Both would do wonders for my heart.

Guy Penn (a/k/a Damon Christopher)