Who Am I that I’ve Come Back Here?

How the hell is this my life?

“Thank you for flying with us and welcome to Los Angeles.”

Fuck. Here we go. The moment I’ve been dreading. The moment I find out if my decision was right.

“Can you grab my bag for me in the compartment above you?” an older man asks.

“Sure.”

“Thank you. This is all so stressful,” he shares.

“It is, I’ll help you,” I reassure him.

“Thank you, young lady.”

“Young lady,” I think to myself. I don’t feel young. I feel ancient. I feel awful. My broken heart feels about as heavy as the plane.

“Flight attendants, prepare for cabin door opening,” the announcement pops through.

When I step off this plane, I will have fully reentered. I’m not sure I’m ready.

I’ve left my beautiful home of over 6 years in Portland, Oregon to come back to L.A. People probably think I’m nuts. I think I’m nuts. I honestly feel like I’m going nuts.

“What the fuck are you thinking? You’re nuts,” my mind races and yells at me.

And then, there is my body, which is very quietly whispering, “This is right for now. Keep going. Leave it be. Trust this. This is leading you back to yourself.”

Dear Lord, please let this be okay.

As I walk through the familiar passageways of the airport, I instantly start to sob. But I’m not sobbing because of where I am. I am sobbing because of where he is, which is no longer in the same city as me.

My heartbeat triples in tempo as I feel the rush of adrenaline hit my system. His face flashes across my mind. His last words make my knees so weak, I almost lose my balance.

I can’t do this. I can’t do this. I can’t do this.

My breathing is quick and shallow. My palms sweat. He’s not mine, never was mine, will never be mine. How is that possible? How the hell is this my life?

The baggage claim carousel has already started spitting out bags when I walk up. The man I helped on the plane catches my eye and gives me a wave. I wave back.

“Please do not park in the red or white zones,” the airport calmly reminds people.

I hate my life right now.

When I step out of the Lyft, I see the house I’ve known my whole life. A house that has always been a landing ground for times when I was lost, stuck, or in transition.

Here I am again: lost, stuck, and in transition. This is fitting.

My grandparent’s house sits in a neighborhood adjacent to Pasadena in Southern California. This is the house where I will mend my broken heart. It is the house where I will transform myself, yet again. It is the house I will have to call home, for now.

I put the key in the lock, turn it counterclockwise, and reenter a piece of my old life.

The bed frame hinges squeak a bit when I sit down in the front bedroom. I make a mental note to get some WD-40. I lay back on the bed and look up at the ceiling. A faint crack from an earthquake years ago sprawls from the window.

I’ve come back. It’s done. Now what?

I close my eyes and take a few deep breaths. The familiar scent of the bedroom fills my senses.

“Please don’t hate me,” his text pops into my mind. My stomach lurches. I feel sick.

I’ve come back. What does this mean? Have I regressed? Or am I ascending? I’m not sure. I just feel…numb. I also feel like a fraud. A numb fraud. How is this even happening right now? What the hell happened?

As I sit and ponder my new reality, I can’t help but also feel a sense of relief.

A relief that I won’t have to drive down the streets that remind me of him. A relief that I will not wake up in the bed that witnessed our naked bodies and heard our pillow talk. A relief that I can’t get to him and he can’t get to me. The relief is exquisite. It also makes me volatile, nauseous, and lightheaded.

I’m…torn.

I feel like I am in one of those after-school specials — the one about the girl who screwed up her life, so she had to return home. In humbling herself, she somehow finds a pathway out of the mess.

Is this my pathway? Oh, God, I hope so. Where else would the pathway be? I’m so lost, vulnerable, and without a flashlight. I can’t see ahead. It’s so dark that I can’t see.

Who am I that I have come back here? The place I said I would never return. The place I promised myself I was done with. I can’t help but feel like I’ve broken a deep vow to myself, one that I can’t take back.

And then, I remember.

It’s not that Portland isn’t great, it’s that my focus was elsewhere almost the entire time.

I remember the loneliness, the agony, and the heartbreak that made me feel like I was drowning. I remember the restless nights I stayed up wondering why he had to come into my life. I remember the arguments I had with my soul, my ego, with God, with anyone or anything that would listen to my suffering. I remember drafting a text to him that said I wished we had never met, just to delete it moments later and continue to miss him.

As I sit and remember, I look around this familiar bedroom. The house is dead quiet. I can hear the hum of the refrigerator two rooms away.

“I miss you and this sucks,” I say out loud. My voice cuts through the cold air, almost creating an echo.

I’m okay. I’m okay. I’m gonna be okay. I keep saying it so it starts to sound normal.

I get up and go to the bathroom and look in the mirror.

Who the hell is this woman staring back at me? She used to be young. She used to be tender. She used to give a shit.

How freeing to not give a shit.

“I allow myself to not give a shit,” I say to the mirror. “I allow myself to be here.”

I brush my teeth and crawl into bed. When I close my eyes, all I can see are Portland’s low-hanging, misty morning clouds. I can almost smell the trees.

I smile.

It was mine. And now, it’s not. And that is okay.

And then, right there, as I drift off to sleep, I decide that I’m gonna be okay.

Yes, I’m gonna be okay.