Moving away is just like a "break-up." Actually, I think a "break-up" is easier. When my last boyfriend broke up with me, he did it over the phone... like a pussy bitch. I was so mad that he was too pathetic to say it to my face, I went on an anger rampage. I started a "break-up" journal where I outlined all the horrible things about him, and why it was better that we weren't together. I wrote all my feelings down, day by day, week by week, and let myself go through all the emotions, gaining more and more perspective each day. Unfortunately, booze and facebook got the better of me on a few occasions, and I ended up leaving drunken fbook comments on his page, with my rage fingerprints all over the place. I would delete them seconds after I wrote them out, completely unaware that fbook sends out email notifications of said comments, whether or not you delete them moments later... whoops. ANYWAY, long story short, I got over him. I got over him faster than I thought I would, and don't really have any negative feelings left about the whole thing. While going through box that I have yet to fully unpack, I stumbled upon the elusive the "break-up journal," and found myself wishing that moving away was more like breaking-up. I wish I could make a "break-up" journal about where I'm from, and highlight all the things my hometown had done "wrong." I wish I wasn't romanticizing my former surroundings, and could remember the restlessness I was consumed by before I moved.
I got a text message last night from this women whom I used to babysit for. I looked after her 3 children for about 3.5 years while I was going to school in San Francisco. Her text said, "First night with the new sitter... We miss you!!!" I totally started crying when I read this and I have no idea why. Sure, I miss the kids. I spent a lot of time with them, and even though they were heinous little monsters a fair share of that time, I still loved them, and feel partially invested in their lives. I realize that their not MY children, but I THOROUGHLY underestimated how much I would miss them when I moved.
All the familiar things that were grating on my nerves at home, are things I miss now. Driving through San Anselmo, going over the golden gate bridge, friday nights in the city; I miss all the things that I took for granted, and I'm not really sure what to do about it. Even if I packed up and went home tomorrow, in a few weeks or so, I would be itching to leave again. Crawling in my skin looking for another way out. It isn't about the place I'm in, or where I'm going, it's about me. Something is itching and crawling around inside me, and I can't quite put a finger on what it is.
I'm realizing more and more that life isn't a series of open and shut, case by case situations. Things ebb and flow, in and out of focus, rarely ending completely, or opening completely. It's as if my entire understanding as to how "things are supposed to be," has blown up in my face, and left a sad little clown, laying on the floor, pointing and laughing at me. Yes I know... Worst.Analogy.Ever.
Being so far away from everything I've ever known, has bitch-slapped me with the highly unsavory realization that I was hiding in my familiar. I was hiding in the comfort of it all, and I let the fear of venturing beyond my familiar, overtake me. Now that I'm away from this hiding place, it feels like I've been stripped naked, and placed in the middle of a very big and very breezy intersection. My nipples are hard, and if you see me on the street, feel free to drop some change in my cup... that's not a sexual innuendo, although I can see how it could be perceived as one.
I have no where to hide, and for the first time, in a long time, I no longer want to run from myself... besides, I'm a tricky bitch and tragically hard to escape... Trust me, I've been running from myself for YEARS, and I'm always one-step to the right of my shadow; just on the edge of the darkness, desperately trying feel the light.
