It was a tough trip. I got off of the plane exhausted but I didn’t want to go home. I knew I couldn’t. If I were to have gone back to my Parisian studio, I would have cuddled in the darkness with the thoughts and the tears stained on my pillow.
No. I could not go back to my studio.
I called my friend with an excuse.
“Hey! I still have that book you let me borrow. It’s in my suitcase. Mind if I come by and drop it off?”
She was somewhat on my way home, and I knew I was going to have to go up 6 flights of stairs. I needed to rant though. I needed to not be alone.
I got to her apartment and she smiled.
“What is it?”
“I could not be alone… It was a tough trip.”
She grabbed my suitcase and carried it up the 6 flights of stairs as my mind wandered to the luggage I held from the past 7 years of emotional turmoil. This weekend had brought back old feelings.
I had thought I had gotten over it. I had thought I could bare it, but as I sat in that childhood home sitting by one of the women who had raised me, I had been on the brink of tears. I tried talking to her, told her stories about my adventures and yet, minutes later I found myself repeating things I had said. I was not being listened to.
That old love was dead.
I somewhat summarized to my friend my situation, and she let me rant as she also studied for her online class. She was actually listening. As I finished my story, I simply said, “I really do not want to go home. Can I crash here?”
She let me, and I stole her bed and comforter on a night when her heater was broken (she stayed up until 6 studying).
On Thanksgiving, (the Thursday before I left for my trip to Spain), I got a few text messages from friends in the states saying that they were thinking about me and asked how I was.
My parents somehow always seem to take time out of their busy schedules when I am having a legit meltdown to do as much as possible.
These are the kinds of relationships that I want to be surrounded by, and the ones that I am most grateful for.
This weekend was not as great as it could have been. It was fun, and I am happy that I got to be a part of someone’s life that I absolutely adore (surprised my 18 year old cousin for his birthday). This weekend was a reality check though. If anything, it put me in my place. I realized what I truly mean to some people, and how I, as a grown up, can decide to cut certain toxic relationships out of my life (these certain people have been out of my life for 7 years now… there was just always hope in me that things would change).
I want to be surrounded by love. I want to feel good when I am around people. I want to be with people that inspire me, test me and encourage me. I do not want people to make me feel bad about myself. I do not want to be around people who dislike me due to their relationship with someone else.
In the past 4 months that I have lived in Paris, I have radically changed. I am happy. I am independent. I have realized what I want. I smile because I want to, not because I force it (that has to be one of my favorite changes). These emotions are important to me. I am protective of them because even though I am mature and sound older than my age, I am the youngest I have ever felt in a really long time.
In three days, Spain taught me a lot… just like it always has. It will always be what I consider home, the place where I used to find comfort on those couches and that living room we all sat around in. I will always look back on her with fondness, love and care. I will always want to run into those arms that I used to run to as I got off the plane. I will always love her, and if one day she called me up asking for my help I would still be willing to.
It is now time to live my life though, and let her live hers. You can never force a relationship, even when it is blood.