I still don’t know what I’m doing here. Spoiler alert: Not that I’m anywhere close to figuring it out soon.
Back story (I know these two words can’t help but make you yawn, but give it a shot, please): A few months ago, I hauled my sorry ass out of my home town because, well, I just didn’t feel like anything there was working for me. Translated: I got my heart broken and it felt like everything — EVERYTHING — suddenly just toppled over me and I couldn’t take it anymore. So I bailed. Those who know me (and I define the word “know” in its most loose form) would say I make a habit of running away when something I have an aversion to approaches me. Maybe I am like that. Maybe I do need to stick my head in the sand until I feel like I can take on the world again, until I feel I can trust myself well enough to start making good decisions.
What I’m trying to say here, as messy as this post seems, is that everyone has different ways in coping when crap hits the ceiling. And this time, I chose to cope with my latest heartbreak by moving some place new. I felt the need to reinvent myself, too. Not that drastically, of course. But I just needed a place where I could start from scratch, where no one knows about me. There is something refreshing about walking down the street and I’m not worried I’ll bump into a former co-worker or an ex-boyfriend. Am I loving it here in Maroon City? HELL, YES. DOUBLE HELL, YES.
Freedom, I am on you.