An Interlude

Being in love with a place is like being in love with a person: you are always the best version of yourself.

When you feel loved, you can do no wrong. You wake up every morning and no matter how shitty the day is, ultimately you find yourself charming, kind, smart, beautiful - nothing brings you down. When in love, you glow.

I knew no one in San Francisco, and yet I was totally at ease. I was calm, but still quirky; smart, but not elitist; savvy, but kind. I had removed all pressure - I wasn't performing. It didn't matter what anyone else thought of me because it was just me and my city, and I was content enough with that. There you have it: best version of myself.

I struggle occasionally in New York with a kind of regurgitated version of SF Lillian. She speaks the same words, but they no longer sound alive. I feel almost robotic - repeating phrases I picked up on the West Coast, which suddenly feel like cotton in my mouth. "I mean, I don't know, I feel lucky to have been there and now I'm excited to be here" to which my brain promptly responds "Shut up you stupid hippy." I will talk, but my mind is somewhere else (with the sun over the Pacific, maybe?).

I always become withdrawn after I lose love. I forget the person I was when I was in love, and I auto-pilot my way through daily interactions. It is difficult, I think, because I am so eternally shaped by my affairs that in the aftermath of the break up, or departure in this case, I have to relearn how to exist in my own body.

The New Yorker in me says "Fuck that. Let's go let's go let's go! Stay busy, start exploring, DO SOMETHING. Fake it til you make it, baby. Now MOVE."

The San Franciscan says "Be here now. There's nothing else you can do. It's all part of the journey."

And strangely enough, this is all the same advice.

The benefit of break ups, of heart ache, of home sickness, is that through that broken confusion, you find something better.

It just takes time. And patience. And plenty of alcohol.