Leaving to come home

Sometimes I feel like my own PR representative on this blog. I only present one facet of my personality and my life. You guys get the general idea, but for the most part there’s a thick wall of frosted glass between what I say and what is actually happening. Which is a smart thing to do, online. I mean, anyone could be reading this. I may have a stalker I know nothing about just waiting for me to drop one tidbit of information that will lead them straight to my door. Plus, everyone changes names and things online to protect other people. Or they don’t use names at all. I usually opt for the no-names option, as you guys have probably noticed when I start babbling about the people in my life.

If you’ve been following me for a while, you may be familiar with the fact that I don’t keep a diary anymore. Not since I had every single one of my diaries from Year Eight until my first year out of high school read by my ex. Who was quite heavily featured in a few of them. So I suppose this blog is my diary. Only without all the self-indulgence.

So, forgive me for my self-indulgence just this once.

This week’s Daily Post asked me and my fellow bloggers the question: “If you could relive the past week, would you?”. Not such a loaded question, really. Only it was for me. Because this past week I was in Brisbane, living my old life.

A few weeks ago I wrote up a post entitled “Society of Silence“, all about the silences we keep because society essentially demands that we do so. But what about the silences in our own minds? The subduing of the subconscious because we simply do not want to deal with what it is trying to tell us.
I don’t know about you guys, but for me personal epiphanies are rare. I have them once every couple of years. The biggest and earliest one I can remember was realising I was the same dress size as my mother in Grade Nine and going on a health kick (something I REALLY NEED TO DO NOW). The next was a few years later when I realised that I was actually in love with my boyfriend (you know when it hits you all at once?). And my latest one came on the afternoon before I left for Brisbane to come back to Canberra. And that one was that I never, ever should have left.

My life in Brisbane was demanding. I was working my arse off, studying my arse off, and was constantly broke. But the people, and the city, made it all worth it. I was surrounded by new friends and old friends who helped me try and get through the disintegration of my relationship of almost four years.
2013 was an intense year for me, so I felt like I needed a break. I felt like I needed a new start and that was why I moved 1,200 k’s away.
Thing is, I realised a few days ago that I really shouldn’t have done that. I should have simply moved out of my house and stayed in Brisbane. Or, better yet, I should have still gone to my mother’s for a few months, and then gone back to Brisbane. What I did was run away from a life that I had sculpted and polished for three years. And I want it back. That was the big epiphany: I want my Brisbane existence back. The work, the study, the public transport, Queen St Mall, South Bank, my friends, and the view of the city from the Riverside Expressway at one o’clock in the morning.

Sometimes, I really hate personal epiphanies. Because now I have to undo what I did approximately six months ago just to end up exactly where I was. But, I guess that old cliché is true: sometimes you have to leave, just so that you can come back home again.

So to answer the Daily Post’s question: yes, I would relive the past week. I would crash with my friends, go to the City, eat a double helping of churros and chocolate before watching The Fault In Our Stars, go to GOMA (Gallery Of Modern Art), go out to a themed cocktail place before going out dancing at a pub I can’t remember the name of, visit the Museum of Brisbane, avoid the “Abbott Haters” protest, and go back to the ol’ salt mine (Subway) to bug a friend of mine while he was closing the store.

I also had an even more personal personal epiphany, but that one is just for me. And maybe just one other person to whom I wrote a letter.


About Bec Graham

Bec Graham, 24, was born on the wrong continent. Everything from her burns-like-paper skin tone to her inability to cope with the slightest hint of a hot day suggests she should have been born under the gloomy skies and mild sun of the UK. She hopes writing will get her to her rightful home one day. Failing that, she scans the skies for a spinning blue police box, hoping to catch a lift back to the motherland.
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7 Responses to Leaving to come home

  1. dunnhm says:

    So… this was an emotional read. Did you cry while writing this? Because I’m tearing up writing this comment. So selfish of you!
    Missing you xo

  2. Pingback: As time goes by… | My Infernal Imagination

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