Baggage

My car started to shake and growl in peak hour traffic for the third time that week. Rhythmically it would crescendo until I was sure it could take no more, and then, thwomp, it would visibly give a little jump and then start its pathetic little process all over again. Growl, crescendo, thwomp. Growl, crescendo, thwomp. Growl, crescendo, thwomp.

People on the sidewalk looked at me in my little rumbling box with a mix of sympathy and fear, as if my car could explode at any moment. While they felt for me (you could see it on their faces), would I just get out of their god damn way in case it did really explode because they didn’t feel like having their day ruined by my exploding car (you could see this on their faces too. A tad more strongly than you could see the sympathy).

Which is how I was feeling about myself.

I had been on the verge of exploding for days now.

And I was sure passersby on the street could see it. Worse than that, everyone close to me could probably see it too. My best friend could see it. She had been able to see it since he woke up at our house the morning after my birthday party. One part friend, one part occasional lover, all parts someone else’s boyfriend.

“Half the reason I am leaving is to get away from him,” I said to her the next day. “Nothing changes if I stay here.”

“I know,” she said. “You can still change your mind if you want to, no one would judge you or think any less.”

I would judge me, I thought. I would think less of me. But out loud I said,

“No, I want to go, this is what I want to do.”

Packing up your life is hard. It’s hard physically and emotionally.

But it’s also a prime opportunity to get rid of the baggage you don’t need.

Those mustard jeans you thought were a great idea in 2012? Chuck ‘em. That cushion shaped like a star you made in Home Ec when you were 15? Don’t need it. The situations you create for yourself to hide from real life? Get rid of them. Your piece of shit car which has been at the mechanic four times in the last month? Sell it and make it someone else’s problem. The people who take from you but do not give back? Give them the flick. None of this shit will fit in your baggage anyway.

As it turned out I did explode. I cried every day for a week.

I cried over the adoption ads on TV, sobbed in the car when Flume came on, lay awake at night listening to the ceiling fan.

Thromp, thromp, thromp.

That’s the ceiling fan. Similar to my car, but with no growl. No crescendo. No little jump to finish the sequence.

I took my car to an auto electrician and I paid to have it fixed. It didn’t play up again. I took myself to therapy and paid to have someone tell me it was OK to leave and that I wasn’t running away. That instead I was running to and that it might actually be a good thing to leave.

So I stopped crying. I packed my life into two suitcases, a backpack, a canvas bag and a small box of treasures to be mailed to me once I had settled.

And I didn’t cry again until three months later when I was landing with my new visa and the stewardess announced over the loud speaker, “To those of you living in the New York area… let me be the first to say welcome home.”

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A version of this piece first appeared in print, in #2 mous. magazine, which you can purchase here, and on my website, which you can view here.