I love the city I live in. Hamburg. Who’d have thought But I was ready when I moved here. Ready to find a place I could call home. And that’s what it became. It took a little time at first, getting settled and all that, getting a second job to get me out of the house and away from the desk, meeting people, even falling in love with someone.
But I got there. I arrived. I’m home.
Except, my heart’s been broken nine months ago, and I was torn to pieces six weeks later. And now there is what you might call an extreme flight risk.
I still love Hamburg. I have friends, a job I love, an apartment I truly feel at home in. I have a life here. And I have so many memories that hurt my heart more than I can bear sometimes.
You know, it’s a strange phenomenon. Being out and about with my friends, I make new memories. I experience laughter and joy and sometimes moments of transcendence that hit me utterly unexpected. I live my life the best way I can. And there’s much I love about my life. I appreciate all I have.
Yet, there’s a part of me that feels haunted. I can’t shake the memories. They’re all good memories. I was in love for a year and a half and it wasn’t always easy. It was always easy between us, so wonderful when we were together – little hiccups and fights and disagreements aside. Those are inevitable and necessary. But we were great together. We were right together.
And I don’t have a single enjoyable memory of us. The entire year and a half break my heart. I was presented with an impossible ending, no conclusion or resolution, no explanation, no reason – just an end. She threw everything away as if it meant nothing. And as a consequence, she took any meaning away from me.
Some of the happiest memories of my life make me nothing but miserable. It hurts to think about it. So, I don’t. I can’t. And I am not getting a resolution or answers. Not from the person I need them from. Yet, I have to move on somehow.
And that’s the thing. Whilst I love my city, my home, my friends, even my job, there’s a part of me that wants to get away. Perhaps I have to get away. I don’t know.
I can’t leave the memories here. They’re a part of me. Just as the pain has become a part of me. But I can leave all those reminders behind. For a while anyway. Until I can truly begin anew.
Which is not what I’m doing right now. I am taking one strenuous step at a time to keep moving, to somehow move on. But I’m dragging all this baggage with me and it doesn’t get any lighter.
I want to leave. And I want to come back. I want to get a fresh start.
I want to put that baggage away and leave it where it belongs: in the past. I want to be free of this love for someone who has no use for my love and who doesn’t care even a little bit what she’s done to me.
The thing is, travelling is good for me. It takes me back to myself. Which is what I need. Running away is not a solution, which is why I haven’t left yet. But I will need to get away eventually.
Otherwise, I will never heal. And that is not acceptable.