Well folks, it’s been a while.

I’ve been reflecting much on the past year. I am coming up on my one-year anniversary of working at Hilton hotel. Along with that, my first year of living in Portland is also coming to a close.

This city has already seen me through so much. I moved here last May with my partner, my first real relationship, who I then believed to be the love of my life. We moved in together after only four months, taking to the road and living in my car, as I didn’t have a place to stay. Eventually, we ended up in Portland, and, as luck would have it, we got a nice studio apartment near downtown. I set to work looking for a job, Doordashing to fill in the gaps, but the two of us lived almost entirely off of my savings. A tale as overtold as any; I ran out of money, the relationship fell apart, she went home.

Alone in Portland, experiencing my first ever break up and struggling to remain passionate about my job, I realized I didn’t remember how to be alone. I stopped taking care of myself. The standards for myself that I had always maintained were lifted. My years of working excessively felt pointless; I had been killing myself, destroying my body, mind, relationships with friends and family, for a career that had given me what? The money I had worked so hard for was gone. And the topic I had always been so passionate about, the act of creating fresh, wholesome, nurturing food, seemed light years away. Here where the sun rarely shown, it often feels impossible to imagine farm-to-table dining. Unlike in sunny California, where I walked 40 feet down to the Chef’s garden to pick tweezer-plated garnishes for service. There, there’s no escaping the inevitability of Goodness in food. I took for granted the opportunity I had. I complained about pretentiousness and inaccessibility, and denied the part of me that lived to be challenged, to have my precociousness recognized and applauded. Throughout my life, I had been quietly building up an ego by pushing myself harder than those around me seemed to be. I developed standards for myself that were miles above the expectations set for me. Each day was a challenge to push past those standards. Looking back, I wish I’d tried even harder.

Working and living there, I had very limited socialization with anyone who wasn’t a coworker. My days off were spent aimlessly driving the winding roads of Big Sur and Monterey, stopping on the beach when I had no where to be. Skydiving when I could afford it, practicing writing with my left hand just because. Reading as much as I could. Writing. I was alone all the time. I was hyper independent, and craved emotional connection, unable to admit how unlovable I felt. When I finished my externship and returned to the CIA to finish my degree, I met Bee. She liked me, and that was all it took for my hyper independence to dissolve into complete codependency. We weren’t a good fit, although I couldn’t admit it at the time. She had very specific culinary tastes, fearing almost anything she hadn’t tried before. I stopped cooking. We reheated frozen meals and I forgot I ever used to cook elaborately for myself. After she left, I wasn’t sure I remembered how, and I lacked the motivation to try. I was conscious of the fact that my work at Hilton was the worst I’ve ever done. I didn’t care. In California (and every job before that), I made certain I arrived to every shift at least 20 minutes early. Hilton, I thought, should count themselves lucky if I showed up at all. I told myself I was just passing the time there, knocking some of the burden off my student loans so I could afford to return to California. I wanted to subvert the burnout I had felt since Big Sur, and thought that by working only one job for the first time without also attending full time schooling, I would be able to undo years of damage. I never actually rested. I leaned heavily into weed. Partially because I couldn’t sleep, and the pain in my back was becoming unmanageable. Mostly, though, I was escaping. I didn’t like who I was becoming, and knew I couldn’t return to who I was.

I rebounded, hurt my friends, made poor choices that I wish I hadn’t made. I started drinking with friends, and kept drinking after they left. I showed up to work drunk or high, and found I could still do my job with minimal effort. The quality of my performance dropped, but I work alone most days. The chef highly prioritized dinner service, and no one noticed the shift in my behavior. I melted into the situation I was in. There is such a culture around line cooking: cigarettes, weed, shift drinks, post-shift drinks, pre-shift drinks, bodies that we’ve put through the wringer, aches and pains that went deeper than just physical. I found myself working one-on-one three days a week with someone who’d been working at Hilton for 17 years. I consider him a friend, but also fought with the knowledge that if he knew my identity, he’d lose all respect for me. Together, we commiserated endlessly about the low-quality items we served. Neither of us made any effort to change it. The arugula was constantly wilted and dirty- why couldn’t I bring myself to wash it? I feared I would never get back my passion for cooking. I got sad again, truly sad in the way I’d always feared I’d go back to. I stopped looking at the future; I thought only of the next day, the next night, the next drink or smoke or opportunity to tune out again. I became reckless with my life. I put myself in dangerous situations, and was shocked when I got hurt. I uncovered a little more bad in the world than I knew there to be previously. I grew up a little more.

I’m starting to find my way back. I’m not sure what changed, really. I had a wake up call at work, after months of continuous degeneration in all aspects of my life, an unexpected source said “I know you’re capable of more”. I started trying again, and recognized how good it felt. I washed the dirt-covered Sysco arugula while dreaming of the wild mustard greens picked from that garden. I washed the lids on my squeeze bottles, cut plastic wrap into perfect squares, placed labels onto pans perfectly straight with crisp, clean edges. I realized how desperately I missed the challenge to do things the right way, rather than the easy way.

I went grocery shopping today. The past few months have included a strange burst of kleptomania, I think encouraged by the general theme of recklessness I’ve so embraced this year. I’m not proud of this, but I couldn’t seem to stop. Today, I didn’t steal anything. I was shocked at how many things I found myself wanting to cook. I strayed from the frozen isles and into the sections that used to call to me, ingredients and products I would have to work for. I finally feel ready to work again.

I have a lot of work to do on myself before anything can truly change. I am being considered for a position as a dinner cook at Hilton. I’ve worked brunch service for most of my career. When I found myself working dinner service, it was always accompanied by either full-time school in the mornings, or a brunch cook position at another restaurant. Currently, I’m working only one job. For the first time in my life, I have time for myself. I’ve been spending it with friends, vices, whoever would keep me from being alone. Working dinner at Hilton would give me the opportunity to practice some of what I lack the skills in, such as protein cookery. More importantly, though, it would completely change my schedule, leave my mornings free and my evenings too busy to fill with a drink or six.

I remain nervous about the things I don’t feel capable of doing on my own, but I will continue to lean on my friends. I will slowly allow myself to start taking steps toward my future. I’m still trying to determine what that looks like, but I know it’s more significant than 30+ years at Hilton and early liver failure. I’ve been feeling hopeful for the past two days. It’s the first time I’ve been hopeful in quite a while. This past year has contained multitudes. I really hope I can make this stick for a while.

-James Jones