#I CRIED VERY MUCH DURING THE LAST TWENTYISH MINUTES

[internet----girlfriend-blog]

On Saying Goodbye, or Making Meaning Out of Nothing

   I’ve never been great at saying goodbyes. Generally, I will stand around uncomfortably and shift myself closer and closer to the door until I can escape. With phone conversations, it’s even worse. It’s not that I don’t want to talk, it’s just that I can’t deal with the silence that comes before saying goodbye.  Most people who know me understand by now that they can expect an abrupt hang-up instead of a goodbye. I think this is mostly because I have an irrational fear of permanence and would rather leave abruptly than face the absoluteness that comes with a goodbye. This is probably because I am mostly a very overdramatic Sagittarius and I watch too many movies.

   I moved out of my parents’ house for the first time when I was eighteen. Within a week of graduating high school I was in the next state over. I didn’t have a hard time saying goodbye to my family but I cried like a baby when I hugged our dog for the last time before leaving. At least my mom could text; the dog didn’t have thumbs. I had expectations that this move would be much more emotional and dramatic, maybe even grandiose, but it was quiet and calm and unassuming. Again, I watch too many movies. I backed out of the driveway in my Kia and tried not to think about our dog. This was my first goodbye that ever really mattered; if you ask my Aquarius mother, it is the only goodbye that’s mattered so far.   

   While trying to escape the small town I grew up in, I ended up in an even smaller town. The name of this town is irrelevant because it’s so small that Google Maps won’t even recognize it as a real place. The deluxe Sheetz gas station was the main attraction, and the closest grocery store was a forty-five minute drive away.  I lived with my first serious boyfriend in this town. He was the first Aries I dated. We stayed in a large apartment over a lawyer’s office and in the summer I sat in front of the windows and listened to people shout and argue with each other about things that I didn’t understand at the time. Our neighbors were visited by the cops almost weekly because their fights got so bad that someone always ended up getting hit. I spent a lot of nights in my room with my ear pressed to the wall, listening to their fighting and learning all of their intimate secrets.  I didn’t think this was weird at the time. Our lease ended the following summer and, no longer fueled by the intensity of the honeymoon phase of our relationship, we decided to part ways. I didn’t cry once but he did keep my record collection, which hurt more than anything else.  I drove back to Ohio in the same Kia and tried not to think about my limited-press editions that I would never see again. This was my second goodbye that ever really seemed to matter.

   I moved back into my parents’ house when I was nineteen. I stayed in their attic and drove twenty-five minutes to work in Cleveland every day. I worked in a tiny restaurant that made most of its money from breakfast rushes and overpriced alcohol. It sat on the corner of Detroit Ave and bragged about the “friendly neighborhood atmosphere” more than embodied it.  I wasn’t allowed to park in the parking lot of this tiny restaurant and I acquired more parking tickets in that time than tip money. The men who worked in the kitchen would crudely talk about my haircut and my facial piercings and the way my ass looked in skinny jeans. The turnover rate was incredibly high, mostly due to the fact that the woman who owned the restaurant was batshit fucking insane and known to be violent.  I quit my job at this tiny restaurant when I was twenty and still living at home. I quit in the middle of a particularly hectic morning shift when I dropped a Bloody Mary on the floor and the owner called me an idiot in front of customers. The Bloody Mary shattered on the floor and stained my white Vans with tomato juice. I walked out, collected the parking ticket from my windshield, and drove home. I was never able to get the stains out of my shoes; it almost felt like one final “fuck you” from the tiny restaurant. This goodbye doesn’t really matter that much now but it felt like it mattered at the time.

   I moved out of my parents’ house for the second time when I was twenty. I lived in an apartment in Cleveland Heights with three other people that I didn’t really know. The apartment was overpriced with high ceilings and narrow hallways. There was always trash everywhere and the kitchen smelled like rotting food. A rice cooker sat in the corner, generally filled with molding rice. The bathroom had a standing shower with a perpetually clogged drain and dirty clothes covered the floor. I was a freshman in college and I spent most of my time at the school to avoid being in the gross apartment. I stayed over at friend’s places and only came home when absolutely necessary. I smoked a lot of weed and did a lot of acid and didn’t sleep and lived off of Clif bars and sugar-free Redbull. I broke up with my then-boyfriend because he was cheating on me with a woman twentyish years older than me. She was a sexually robust woman in her forties who went by the name Bunny and she had a daughter who was also older than me at the time. We met at a mutual friend’s party and she introduced herself by telling me that my boyfriend was good with his tongue. This initially confused me because mostly, I just thought he tasted like Marlboro Reds. I smoke American Spirits. He was the second Aries I dated, coincidentally with the same first name as the first Aries. I never spoke to him again. This goodbye mattered because I no longer had anybody to bring me free weed and help me build IKEA furniture in my shitty apartment.

   I turned twenty-one over the winter break of my freshman year of college. I was living with my parents again, after leaving the shitty apartment during Thanksgiving break. All of my friends were out of state so I bought myself a cheap bottle of gas station wine and invited a boy from Tinder over to my house. We made out on the couch and I knew he was going to hurt me. He did. He was a poet and a playwright with a big ego and a vaguely Italian-sounding name. He lived with his mom and did stand-up comedy on the weekends. I will never trust a stand-up comedian. He was a Capricorn, which also cannot be trusted.  He made fun of me for listening to emo music and I made fun of him for liking musical theater. We went on for months, sleeping together and refusing to acknowledge the fact that we were sleeping together. I moved into an apartment on Coventry while I was still seeing him and he would come over to drink and argue with my Pisces friends. He had a girlfriend almost the entirety of the time I was seeing him. We didn’t know about each other. She was a Gemini. I found out he had graciously given me an STD months after we had already stopped talking. He still follows me on Instagram. This goodbye was extremely prolonged and painful and overdramatic. This was the kind of goodbye I had been expecting when I left home for the first time, but instead it was with a dumb boy. It still mattered, probably.

   I moved out of Cleveland Heights the week before the end of my sophomore year of college. I left behind an apartment that never really felt like home and moved into another apartment that sometimes feels like home. I left behind my bitterness and anger but managed to pick up uncertainty and consistent self-doubt along the way. I moved into a big, old apartment building in Shaker Heights with my (very recently) ex-boyfriend. The first night in our new place we got a pizza and tried to coax my cat out from hiding in the furniture. I cried because I knew I was going to feel trapped, not unlike my cat, probably. I cried because I thought about my mom and how sad I make her. I cried because I knew nothing was ever going to be enough for me. I chalked it up to the fact that I am an overdramatic Sagittarius and ignored those feelings for five more months. I felt like this was a goodbye that mattered, but I’m not exactly sure what I said goodbye to. I’m still trying to figure it out, but I probably never will.

   I spent the summer in this apartment in Shaker Heights doing nothing and taking care of plants and my cat, who’s a Gemini. I drank a lot of wine in the evenings and stopped eating and started sleeping too much. I ignored my friends and didn’t pick up the phone or text anyone back. I only left the house to go to work and came back immediately after my shifts, feeling too anxious to be outside or in public alone. I laid in bed at night, sweating because we don’t have air conditioning, thinking about dying and what my parents would say at my funeral. This time, those thoughts didn’t feel so overdramatic, which was scary. As the summer went on, I thought less about dying and more about escaping, leaving school, leaving my job, leaving my relationship. I applied for study-abroad programs and ignored their acceptance emails. My boyfriend was working full-time, usually over-time, and so I spent most of my days completely isolated, planning my escape. I looked at apartments for rent in cities I’ve never been to, or even considered going to. I spent a weekend in Columbus and then another weekend in Detroit, always dreading coming back to Cleveland. I felt like I had been living as a ghost for the last six months of my life and I was desperately trying to figure out how to become human again. I feel like I’ve said goodbye to this image I’ve curated so carefully for myself, completely disregarding everything I thought I knew about myself and now I’m scrambling around, trying to understand what happened. This is it, this is the big one, the most melodramatic, the most important goodbye.

   I left my first serious, adult relationship last week. We were only together for a little over a year, but it felt like a lot longer. We still live together, so that’s been awkward. When the conversation actually happened, I felt less sad and more relieved. I didn’t even cry. I sat on the chair in our living room and he sat on the couch, asking me what happened. I don’t know what happened. Falling out of love is weird. Realizing that you have a better time hanging out with your friends than spending time with your partner is weird. Understanding that it’s not anyone’s fault and that two people can still care about each other very much but not be in love anymore is weird. We are both fire signs and we are both very overdramatic. And we watch too many movies. He doesn’t believe in astrology, but he’s the stereotype of a Leo. I’ve been listening to a lot of Sufjan Stevens and the National, thinking really hard about what went wrong, and where, and what we could have done to change it, or prolong it even more, or ignore it completely. This goodbye feels like a death. This goodbye will leave a lasting imprint, on both people involved. This goodbye matters.

   I’ll be turning twenty-three in a couple months. I’ve said countless goodbyes, see-yous and catch-you-laters in my life so far. I’ll say a billion more. This isn’t meant to be some deep, soul-searching essay or even a reflection. More an examination. No matter how many goodbyes I say, I know they’ll all matter, even if they become arbitrary later. I’m still not any better at saying it. I will probably never be comfortable saying it. I know I’m always going to be a melodramatic Sagittarius. Maybe someday I won’t define myself that way, but today is not that day.

#writing #personal #personal essay #essay #narrative