Way back when this blog began (coming up for 9 years, which is hard to believe), I was a resident of Melbourne, and as I touched on in my last post, I have just come back from my first visit in 6 years. Leading up to the trip I was filled with great excitement, but also some trepidation and apprehension at visiting the city where I spent the happiest years of my life. The line between euphoric nostalgia at seeing old friends and places, and melancholy at what’s been lost, well that line seems greyer and harder to define the older I get.
Regular readers will know that I moved there because of the relationship I was in, and it didn’t work out, and I left. That’s the nuts and bolts of it, but when I moved to the city I never had any intention of coming back. That was it. So the upheaval (both emotionally and physically) of leaving had a massive impact on my life, and will always left me prone to bouts of what-might-have-been, and wallowing in self-pity that things didn’t work out as I dreamed they would.
Thankfully I remained on a fairly even emotional keel throughout the trip. Seeing some old friends for a few beers was exactly like I had hoped, full of joy and excitement. I managed to keep on the side of feeling grateful that I have them as friends at all, as all the guys and gals I met were incredibly kind to me (especially being a Pom!) and made me feel welcome from day one. I’m lucky to have had that experience, despite it ending in heartache. My ex and I have remained friends and caught up for dinner on a couple of nights, and I’m proud of myself that in the end, we’ve been adults about everything. I still care about her greatly, and always will.
I think that’s the hardest lesson to learn in life, that you have to move forward. Even when getting out of bed feels like the hardest task in the world. I’m a firm believer that people can be so heartbroken and unable to move on that they slip through the cracks of society and go under, vulnerable to mental health issues, addiction and crippling loneliness. I don’t have a secret formula, no-one does. And I had moments when I skipped closer to that line than I would like. But everyone deserves to be, if not happy, then at least secure and content. I don’t wish for much more now than my own roof over my head with a view of the beach (finally happening after 43 years), enough money to live on, something to read every day, and something to drink when I get the urge. It’s not much, but it will do.
So I wandered the streets of Melbourne, visited the old Fitzroy haunts and a few others besides, and I’ve survived. Don’t get me wrong, I will always miss the place. But I value the time I spent there more than anything, and cherish that it happened to me in the first place.
The Beautiful Fight 