Guess who’s back?
Yes, indeed, that was a dated Eminem joke.
It’s been a long time since I’ve posted on here, but I’m back. And, believe it or not, my hiatus from blogging was caused by writing.
I’m a professional writer now. Weird, I know. I’ve spent the past five years – almost to the day – narrating the lives of other people in a newspaper.
I think that’s around the time I stopped narrating my own.
Also, please don’t take this as an opportunity to criticize my grammar. I’m out here saving copy editors’ jobs nationwide. It ain’t much, but it’s honest work.
I’ve built a career around listening. The more I’ve listened to other people’s voices and the better I’ve been able to channel them, the harder it’s become to hear my own.
Until the other night.
I heard the voice of this blog again, and I couldn’t un-hear it.
The reason I logged off for so long is probably a reflection of how guarded I have become. Guarded has been the recurring adjective people have used to describe me.
Returning readers, yes, I, too, see the irony.
As one friend put it, “When you’ve been hit a couple of times, you start to put your gloves up.”
But the only way to make a comeback is to start swinging again. That’s what I’m doing.
***
This weekend I’m going to visit my family.
Notice how I didn’t call it home. It hasn’t been that for a long time.
Five years ago, a predicament like this would’ve sent me spiraling into 50 shades of stressed the fuck out. Nowadays, I look forward to seeing my family – listening to my mother criticize my siblings’ parenting, listening to my siblings’ criticizing my mothers’ parenting – it’s gonna be great.
Look, I’m wholesome now.
Real talk, I’m looking forward to seeing my family. While I wouldn’t call it home; I can’t say it isn’t comforting.
I haven’t even glanced at my flight itinerary. Can’t decide if it’s because I’m evolved now, or if it’s a classic Savannah avoidance tactic. Who can tell?
I sound like a recovering drug addict when I say this, but I honestly have changed. Now when I feel lost, I drop a pin. I’ve turned my ego into a rug and walked all the fuck over it. I’ve set pride aside and matured in ways I truly never believed I could. And I couldn’t be more proud.
My therapist is literally beaming right now.
But even though I’ve changed; heartbreak hasn’t.
Heartbreak is still as impossible to cure as the common cold. You can only treat the symptoms.
If you think I learned by now how risky posting shit online can be, rest assured, I haven’t. So, let’s talk about said heartbreak.
After a four-year relationship that seemed like it had nine un-killable lives, I truly fell in love again. Right guy, wrong time. Or, wrong guy, wrong time. Look, one or two of the two had to be wrong, because it didn’t work out.
Long story short, we broke up when he moved to a different state. Then, I spent a week “gallivanting” – as my boss put it – around the country with my ex-boyfriend, because neither of us could let it go.
Catch flights and feelings, they said.
Yeah, no one said that.
Lowkey, I can see why crying in front of strangers at an airport terminal left a lot of my friends thinking I didn’t get closure. But, nothing feels more like closure than two people sobbing together at an airport entrance. It wasn’t spoken, but I think it’s because those two people (one of them is me) knew it might be the last time for a long time – if ever – they would see each other.
That actually hurt to type.
Point being, closure isn’t the medicine I need.
There is no cure for what I have.
The thing about closure is that sometimes only one person closes the door. And sometimes those fuckers lock it. Then, you’re on the other side of the door, stuck inside something I envision as dark and scary as a float spa looking for the nearest window to crawl out of.
I could turn this door metaphor into a mansion, but I’ll refrain.
Fuck it.
Sometimes I’ve compartmentalized my feelings about the breakup into a rusty shed out back, sending out “I’m fine,” text messages left and right. Other times, I’ve expressed it into existential slash impressionistic paintings that hang on every wall in the house, and all my friends are like, “Yes, girl, feel those feelings,” – or some other overly peppy, pragmatic response to my dramatics.
What I’m trying to say is I’m straight up living in heartbreak headquarters. You know, like a boss. Heartbreak hotel was too cliché, even for me.
But, as expected, these living quarters look different than they used to. New decorator, I heard. Probably Marie Kondo in there sprinkling joy. God was her TV show dry. 10/10 don’t recommend.
Past Savannah would use these break-up blues as an opportunity to launch an identity crisis.
Who am I? What are my goals? Do I wear boyfriend or skinny jeans?
Not now.
I know who I am. I know what I want.
I’m kind. I’m trustworthy. I’m good at my job. I love to lift weights. Boyfriend or skinny jeans? Don’t care, but low-rise is OUT OF THE QUESTION. I’ve even built a morning and night routine that inches me closer to achieving my goals everyday.
I don’t even fucking need the book. I am a badass.
But being heartbroken in this new, evolved version of myself is a new and evolved challenge. While some women are out there eating ice cream and watching true crime documentaries; I’m drinking egg whites while writing freelance articles.
I can’t even wallow in sadness to my fullest potential.
But, hey, I still cry. I still look at our old photos and videos. I still fantasize about what I’d say if he reached out again. I still wear the necklace he gave me.
Basically, I’m only half robot.
Let’s just hope I make it through security at the airport.
When Nothing Goes Write 