ATL, land of love and loss
I don’t know if I’m ready for this one yet.
So let me just be frank and see where that gets me.
I’ve never experienced heartache like the type I’ve experienced in Atlanta. I’ve lost seemingly “loves of my life” Atlanta. At some point, I lost my last known version of happiness here.
I lost myself in Atlanta.
This is the city where I learned how to grieve—myself, past and future.
I have been very fortunate throughout my life thus far to not have experienced any surprised, unprepared for or traumatic loss in my life. I even sincerely recognize how I may one day look back on these words and envy the naïveté and bliss I have in this moment.
The type of grief I found in Atlanta is similar to that of a Zombie-like revival—a loss of identity, still functioning but in a body that feels unfamiliar.
Out of it all, I truly don’t like that my biggest heartbreaks took place in the same city that feels the most like “home.”
I wish that I wanted to leave.
I wish I wanted to move somewhere and start all over on my own, free from the memories.
And at the same time, the only thing that keeps me sane is that I don’t mind. I truly don’t mind the memories.
I don’t mind remembering where I got engaged, where the wedding was, the last time we saw each other—none of it. The arguments, the places I self harmed, where and how I finally got help.
Not because I don’t care, but because I actually care a lot. I wouldn’t be the same me today without each and every experience I’ve been through, including what I would consider, “the bullshit.”
It’s what’s given me perspective, patience, gratitude, hindsight. I wouldn’t wish the same experiences I’ve had and decisions I’ve made on anyone, though I also wouldn’t change them in my own story either.
It feels complete, at least as much as an incomplete story can feel.