10:32 pm
Tonight, I am remembering last August, when I paid a visit to the city where I first got sober in the summer of 2012 (and started this blog!). My fiance is there now, getting his stuff and hopefully, my stuff out of storage so that we can finally consolidate it all under one roof. I’ve had my stuff in a storage unit for a ridiculous number of years (I’m too embarrassed to reveal how many; suffice it to say, *I* am that person they write stories about when they want to feature the amount of money people waste on storing stuff that eventually becomes the equivalent of a big, fat ZERO), so this is good. What is also good is that I am not there with him, having pangs of doubt and longing as I consider cutting my last remaining tie to the city that stole my heart and then, stole my sanity!
I spent 5 years there, and I went back many times since moving away almost 9 years ago, always with the plan that I would move back one day. Before I left, I put my stuff into storage, and over the course of these many years, have consolidated and moved to a smaller unit, but I never got rid of it. Of course, I am moving back here, I kept telling myself: this is where I went to grad school, had amazingly new experiences, became a drunk, had my heart broken and mind burnt with every crushing hangover. Of course, I have to live out the rest of my days here. These are my people, this is where I belong.
Not being there to finally say goodbye might be a good thing–to just let it go, finally and forever, from afar.
Anyway, it’s got me thinking about the week I spent in the city this past summer–I tend to go back once a year, to “visit friends” (I literally have no friends anymore in that town except my brother, who has recently moved there part-time), “reconnect with the city/see my old haunts” (I have wasted countless days, walking past old apartments, old bars, old university buildings, being reminded that I am simply chasing a drunken ghost), and, I guess, plan my move back. Yet, every time I go back, I become slightly less enamored with the place; sure, I will always love it–I went to graduate school there, I became a drunk, I had many life-altering experiences; it’s the place where I spent the first month of my sobriety holed up in a studio, starting this blog in an attempt to finally get sober. I remember during my last stay this August, I walked by the studio where I got sober and started this blog, and took a picture of the place–again. I have more than one picture of that place, and of all the other apartments and sublets I lived in in that town. I can’t let go, and I don’t want to. Why?
I haven’t lived there in many years–that must tell me something, right, even amidst my rationalizations of why I can’t let it go (because I am still in love with it/that life/that lifestyle/my dreams of that era). Thing is, I never did come back, and I’m not precisely sure why, except, I couldn’t financially, and I didn’t really want to anyway. It’s cold, and dark, and my dreams are all intact, inside my mind; I can be anything from anywhere; I can write from anywhere, not just a cold, dark city where I also lost my mind to wine. The more times I return, the more I see that it is and always will be part of my past–the past is the past, and searching for it is just, well, like I said, chasing your own ghost. When I look at it that way, I have to wonder, why not just let it go?
These days, I am starting to sort of feel being in my mid-40s: the whole perimenopausal thing has something to do with it, but I have to say, it comes and goes and right now, I feel totally normal (plus, my blood work came back at almost all normal levels, so that leads me to believe that nope, at the ripe old age of 44, I am definitely not in menopause yet!). It’s just, when I wander around that city (in particular, but not just that city alone), I am very much aware of the difference between me–and my life, and my state of mind and being, and my sobriety, and all the amazing experiences I have had AFTER leaving that town–and all the 20- and 30-somethings around me. I have to accept not that I’m not young or that I’m old, but that I’m just not THERE anymore. My being is telling me to just let it go; it’s too much work holding onto it, and there are so many other things to do, and dreams to be had! I can–and will–let go of holding onto that past, that idea of who I was in that past. I am still her, she still is me; but, we are here, now, and we are plugging away, moving and building. I do not belong to that time, to that past; I belong to me, here and now.
Speaking of which, yes, I continue to build–every day is like laying one lone brick, and hoping it doesn’t fall down or get knocked off by an unexpected wind that came up in the night. My new job is sort of a lot of work–and YES, YES, I am grateful (it’s good work, and my coworkers are probably the nicest, most fun people on the planet to work with), but… I miss my old life! Haha. I have to admit, I miss the freedom of being, of time, of mind, of dreams that island life granted. There is just no other way to say this: I am back in the real world (well, I work from home, but I work every day from 9 to 5, and my day is fairly regimented), but I long to be on that physical and metaphorical island, soaking up the nothingness of the moment, and the magical possibility of the future. I miss being/feeling “young” (um, I moved there the year I turned 38), which I guess entails a bit of saying “fuck it” and just doing what I want, not caring anymore about achieving and doing “important work,” or participating in the consumer culture of the mainland–I mean, who wouldn’t? I miss the sense of fullness of soul that comes with no material possessions. Sure, life here is easier, and I need this “real-world” job so that I can continue to build something that sort of broke down after years as a freelance writer, but…I miss being a freelancer, too! And, most of all, I miss being a barista–ahh, the simplicity of it, the satisfaction, the sense of ownership of doing something a little bit unique to my story and my past.
I have hope that soon come, after the bricks have been laid, we will move forward, or back to, the place that stirs magic in our hearts.
As for that old city where I got sober and that I might not have any remaining connection to once my manz clears out my storage unit in a few days for me–well, there is nothing left to do but let it go. Accept what happened, and what has passed; and let holding on, and longing, and the old idea of my younger self–let it go. I am here now, wherever that may be; I belong to this story, to this place, to this here and now. And, thank Goddess for that.
Drunky Drunk Girl 