I didn’t dare to drive up my old street. A steep hill right off Sunset. The palm trees seemed to bow their crowns reverently for the girl who once lived there.
I parked my car a few blocks away and walked up to the Short Stop. An Echo Park institution for cheap beers, 90’s rap and Dodger fans. The dive was empty at 5pm, the floor not yet sticky from post game celebrations. I beelined for the photo booth, its lore known in the neighborhood.
A year ago, I was here at this same bar. That version of me had smudged on some makeup, and wore a tiny suede dress. She weaved through the crowd straight to the photo booth. She put on a brave face for the camera. In between flashes from the bulbs, she pieced together some semblance of confidence despite the rupture of her own reality. Fake it until you make it, they do say. She attempted to ignore the insistent pain that resided behind her ribs. Each breath squeezing to fit inside. Her smile was a wince, but she was trying.
And now a year later, I was back. It was August again. This time, I plopped down on the stool and closed the dusty curtains. I could see my reflection in the shiny plastic. A puffy face with wet mascara lining my bottom lashes. I was not trying to hide how I was feeling. There was a different pain behind my ribs. I was remembering what had driven me to leave my home.
And crying alone in my car, is far less romantic than crying in a busy subway. Isolation is a significant trait in this city.
I assumed returning to Los Angeles would feel like a strange homecoming. That the little pieces of me that had gone missing, would find their way back. But instead it felt more like a wake. And each car stuck in traffic was along for my funeral procession.
I was not mourning my past relationship. Not the ‘what could of beens’, or the cinematic love story, I had once believed in. I had let that go.
What I was mourning, was my innocence. That was the collateral damage gifted to a girl who unabashedly gave her heart without expecting much in return. One man’s lack of authenticity became the destruction of something quite pure. Being content was enough for her. And it was not for him.
The only place she might be memorialized unknowingly is through him. Because that girl will remain the source material for how he treats each and every woman who comes after. Not until he faces his truth. He will take them to same restaurants she loved, take them to the same far away destinations she showed him, use the same inside jokes she came up with. He will continue to repeat the behavior with limited consequences. And most likely kill them off like he did to her-
The grainy film strip landed in the slot. I looked at the black and white images of me. I was looked so different. There is a sadness that lives in me now, that didn’t have a home before. A realist who believes in miracles. The patron saint of women who have been betrayed.
So much of my time in California, I found myself looking for her. Restless nights in my childhood home. The full moon sneaking its lights through the blinds, demanding my eyes to stay open. Go find her! I jumped out of bed, my legs leading me out the garage to the street of my cul-de-sac. I hiked up into the abandoned golf course at the top of our hill. A place once perfectly manicured, now over grown with dry brush and wild flowers. I had not seen the stars so bright since leaving for New York City. Where was she? The little girl who wanted to be an actress. Who laid on her carpeted floor listening to classical music. And religiously ripped out pages of teen vogue taping them messily to her bedroom walls.
In Los Angeles, I looked for another girl. She still wanted to be an actress. She believed people could be permanent fixtures in one’s life. She took photos of bougainvillea and wildly stomped through mustard plants with her dog. She loved the salty taste of her lips after a margarita.
That is what I mourned. The many past lives of me. The girls who no longer existed.
But this sadness comes from a place of wisdom. Wisdom to be brave enough to have unshakeable self respect. Wisdom that remaining soft only makes life far more meaningful. Wisdom that leaving home sometimes gives space to be someone completely new.
Real evolution is much more quiet that what we see on the internet. There is pressure for an extraordinary ‘glow-up’ after a break-up. A flashy competition of who is thriving after the departure. But I see life is far too nuanced than a winning match. I am still healing, and I accept that. And those film strips, become a fleeting reminder of who I am right now, only in that moment.