the girl who ran

on crafting a salve for itchy feet

Something in me — however paltry, however stubborn — resents anything that remotely resembles permanence. Habit is a curse; routine is an anchor. I’ve probably written otherwise, but that was a different season, a different me who was still enamored with the newness of this now familiar place.

At 22, I moved from New Orleans to Portugal on somewhat of a whim. I purchased a one-way plane ticket instead of paying my rent, loaded my few belongings into a (non-climate controlled, ick) storage unit, and slept on a mattress on my mother’s living room floor for the entire month of December (and half of January). Coincidentally, the trip came on the heels of my first experience with infidelity. To be clear, everything had been booked and paid for before the incident, but I suppose that fate, bless her, saw it fit to pave a swift and seamless exit from my sorrow.

Young, and raw, and footloose, a cross-continental jump seemed the perfect next step in my journey. Though my ex was joining me, her new love interest was (obviously) not, and I, in all my girlish optimism, assumed that the rust red roofs of Lisbon could repair what had been broken. And perhaps more importantly, the move would save me the shameful reputation of girl-who-was-cheated-on; I would instead be girl-who-left-and-emerged-someplace-better.

I would be the girl who ran.

To say that I’ve ever been particularly social would be a lie; my track record is that of a person who does not know how to consistently show up for others. But Portugal — really just a synonym for “elsewhere” — gifted me with legitimate excuses to go ghost. A time difference, an empty SIM card, a locked social media account — all tangible references for my sudden absence from both physical and digital spaces.

I relished in, and thrived under, the quick beauty of anonymity. Was I having crying fits on public park benches? Sure. But the likelihood that that one girl I knew from 10th grade homeroom bumping into me doing it? Implausible.

Sometime between then and now, leaving became my preferred coping mechanism. I don’t care if the grass is greener — I only care whether or not I’ve touched it before.

In news that will surprise no one, my feet have started itching again. I have made a home of this place, and I feel too visible, too familiar, too accountable to my friends and the mailman and my neighbors and the cheesemonger at the grocery store around the corner. I am saddled with a newborn responsibility to show up, again and again, through the embarrassment, the exhaustion, the swinging of moods and minds. Park benches no longer offer emotional refuge, but rather a platform for the spectacle of my distress.

The privilege of aloofness is harder to stumble into the older I get. There’s now the car note and the book collection that drips from the shelves. There’s now the very expensive sofa. There’s now the dog that cries when I leave her and the plants that wilt when I forget to water them. There’s the mail and the trash and the recycling and the compost, too. There’s the steak marinating in the fridge and the wine aging in the makeshift cellar. There are the wedding photos on the bookshelf and the rings on the fingers. There’s the garden out back. There’s now the art on the walls and the prints in the closet that still need to be framed. And there are the people. All of them.

There’s the one who sends memes. The one who grows tomatoes and peppers and bakes cookies. The one who tumbles and stretches like seaweed. There’s now the one that cooks. The one who builds. There’s the one who goes to bed at eight pm sharp. There’s now the wife who holds me closer through when i cry, cry, cry about wanting to be far away. The one who sings. The one who takes photos. There’s the one who dreams of Paris.

Then there’s me, the one who runs.

My shine is wearing off and the creases and cracks have begun baring themselves, ugly and broken, against my will. But instead of frowning, the people say, it’s okay, you’re okay. When I retreat into myself they say, we’ll be here when you come out. They say, can we bring you some cake?

In return, I tell the truth and say I’m sorry and bring a bottle of wine. I grit my teeth and text back. I let myself be held. I bring gifts and dogsit and make plans. And at least for now, I stay.

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