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It’s
been a rough couple of weeks since I got back from London. I went to meet my friend Tess’s baby (he’s as
delicious as he looks in the photos) and to see my good friends, but I also
went to confront my past there and kind of reclaim my territory – I liked
to say I was going to ‘piss all over London’ with a wicked grin on my face, but
as the trip approached I got progressively more terrified, until my dad had to
give me some of his anti-anxiety meds to stop me hyperventilating in the office
the day of my flight.
As
expected, being in London was really hard.
One day I walked the southern boundary of ‘our’ old stomping grounds and
I could feel the blood pulsing in my brain and heart and I knew I had to change
routes and go out of my way. I likened
it to touring a haunted house: ghosts of my relationship were everywhere,
reminders of how happy I’d been and how long he’d lied to me, how much I’d put
up with it… I walked past pubs where I’d cried on friends’ shoulders and asked
them what I should do, and I wished I could go back in time and tell myself to
get the hell out of dodge because he’d already fucked someone else and things
were only going to get worse the longer I waited for him to ‘figure it out’. I walked by cafes where he and I had had
wonderful breakfasts, holding hands and beaming at each other; I even walked
right by the place where we had breakfast the morning before he left me, where
we’d talked about wedding colors and he’d reiterated his renewed commitment to
me, then not eight hours later he packed a bag and left for his mum’s to ‘figure
things out’ (there’s that fucking unsatisfying phrase again). Luckily I had two great friends with me, who
got me through the worst of the emotional landmines London had laid for me, but
their presence, while crucially comforting, also kept me from truly facing my
feelings about being back in that place where I thought my future had come
together, and where I ended up watching that future unravel, picked apart by
long cruel fingernails black with deceit.
I came
here today to talk about yoga. I’m
really into yoga, and I love how it makes me feel about my body and my mind… I did
yoga today, and for an hour all I could think about was breathing and how long will this goddamn plank last. But obviously one yoga class does not an
eased mind make. It seems I can’t escape
this pit that keeps reopening in my chest, so for now I’ll just say this: IOU
one post on yoga and body image. Maybe after
the retreat I’m going on in July I’ll be in a better place.
I’m
sorry about this time. I’m just a mess.
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