Over the past few years, whenever I have gone through a dramatic breakup, a really difficult few months or anything so emotionally taxing that sitting in the shower, cry-singing ‘All By Myself’ feels appropriate, the next urge I get is to run away. In 2008, I went through the worst breakup I’ve ever had. Sure, the guy cheated on me and wasn’t so classy in breaking the news or dealing with the fall out, but honestly I was headed for a major crash with or without that. The crash was made much worse by having my heart mangled by a guy I was totally and utterly crazy for (crazy in love and batshit crazy). Anyway, after that all went down and I eventually dragged my pity partying ass from hibernation, Lines of Escape and I had this fantastical plan to move to Ireland.
With both our EU passports and citizenship, it was a fantastical plan. In 2009 she’d finish honours, I’d work for the year and get some experience and then bam! Come 2010, we’d be outta the country. We’d leave our sorry tales, broken hearts and failed expectations at Cape Town International. We’d eke out a living as waitresses and eventually writers of some kind. Sharing potatoes and a tiny hole to call home.That didn’t work out. It ended up being for the best, but my desire to leave my country to escape my feelings became a theme.
Over the past few years it’s lessened from moving hemispheres to moving suburbs, flats and even rooms. Places hold too many memories for me. A street at dusk. The lingering scent of incense. The shape of a chair. I get tumbled back down into suffocating emoness. I’ve run away again, now, after a hard year. I’m told it’s the best thing for me after what 2011 and I went through (we’re not on speaking terms, this rabbit year and I). But how much more running can I do? Does escaping the place release the feeling or just leave it dormant to return again? It’s not dealing, but is dealing always the best option?
The end of the year makes me contemplative.