Moving on 101

Frida Kahlo to Marty McConnell
by Marty McConnell

leaving is not enough; you must
stay gone. train your heart
like a dog. change the locks
even on the house he’s never
visited. you lucky, lucky girl.
you have an apartment
just your size. a bathtub
full of tea. a heart the size
of Arizona, but not nearly
so arid. don’t wish away
your cracked past, your
crooked toes, your problems
are papier mache puppets
you made or bought because the vendor
at the market was so compelling you just
had to have them. you had to have him.
and you did. and now you pull down
the bridge between your houses.
you make him call before
he visits. you take a lover
for granted, you take
a lover who looks at you
like maybe you are magic. make
the first bottle you consume
in this place a relic. place it
on whatever altar you fashion
with a knife and five cranberries.
don’t lose too much weight.
stupid girls are always trying
to disappear as revenge. and you
are not stupid. you loved a man
with more hands than a parade
of beggars, and here you stand. heart
like a four-poster bed. heart like a canvas.
heart leaking something so strong
they can smell it in the street.

Since I just left the city of Poe's death place, I figured poetry was a good outlet to start this post off. Unfortunately, I did not make it to his house this time around, but next time!

This road trip is only a week and 3 days old. I've been "healing" from everything for almost 3 months, if I start counting from the moment that I knew it was the beginning of the end. I'm not going to lie, I still have huge setbacks. Sometimes when people show me affection, I feel guilty. I feel shame. I want to cry. I find my brain whispering, "Why should they care about your well-being? You don't." It's one of the most infuriating things in the world, to know I would give my everything for practically anyone that needed it of me, but I wouldn't do it for myself. I want to care about myself the way I care about others, or the way others care about me. When I was texting a friend, I wanted to tell him that I was incredibly grateful that I felt like I could be myself talking to him. I found myself re-wording the text to say that I was grateful that he allowed me to be myself. I still feel trapped in a lense, mentally putting my well-being in the hands of others when I know I need to take it in on myself, which is a nice segue into the poem, and my Baltimore-based revelation.


I have always craved the new; the idea of starting again and resetting is intoxicating. It's a chance to chameleon myself into whatever version of me that would enjoy life, not have meltdowns or be overly-sensitive, the version that would be confident and comfortable in who she is. That's the ideal that everyone strives for, right? What's so wrong with wanting that?

Nothing. It's the way I went about it that had me figuratively (sometimes literally) falling on my face. I would carry my old self with me, let her hide in the shadows, ready like a backup generator for when my power went out to kick in and take over. I carried her, damaged and untreated, letting her bleed a trail of suffering behind me wherever I went. I used her as a shield when I was in situations that might destroy my new identity; a blanket to cover my new existence when I would encounter others that might uncover the real me. I allowed her to get bruised and cut, emotionally battered and I let her suffer, because I hated her. She was the cause of my anger. She held every memory of anxiety, anguish, and abuse, and I piled it onto her until she finally broke. I wouldn't let her go, I kept dragging her along behind me, tied her fate to mine, and then was angry to see her at the other end of my safety rope.

I wasn't willing to let her be, let her rest, let her heal, and let her rest in peace so that I could become someone else. I never let past hurts go, holding on hoping one day those that wronged me would make it right. Unfortunately, that's not how life works. That is not what those who wrong someone typically do. This is not how people operate, and not just because they're bad people; it's easier to remove yourself from someone you've harmed rather than try to make it right. I have done it to others, and I cannot fault them for that. I, however, cannot carry them with me once they've let me go. I have to fully close the door. I cannot carry false hope that things will be different if I keep the gateway open. That is simply another way of continuously hoping that someone else will fix me, save me, enable me to be who I want to be. I don't know why I fight the idea that I am my own hero.

It was my cousin and his wife that helped me see this while visiting Baltimore. My cousin moved there after he landed his dream job. His (now) wife followed him there, leaving behind a job that she loved and strong friendships that she had built. She told me her first few months there were incredibly rough. She was constantly comparing her new life to her old one, missing and longing for a reality that was no more. She wouldn't let herself enjoy the new possibilities, still holding on. I cannot tell you how true that rang for me. She said it got so much better when she allowed herself to let go of the past and become active in her new life. She has build new connections, has new local hangouts, and has a new soccer crew with my cousin.

"leaving is not enough; you must

stay gone. train your heart

like a dog. change the locks

even on the house he’s never

visited...."

I, too, must stay gone. I don't have to pretend things that hurt me never happened, the way I used to. I do not have to put makeup on scars, or lie when people ask what brought me here. I don't have to avoid foods that remind me of him, or hide from life on a day that reminds me of death. I cannot, however, live in the house that is no longer mine; the one barely standing and has no roof to protect me. That's insanity, when I have the opportunity to move into a house that offers warmth, comfort, and happiness. I cannot exist in two worlds at once. I have to fully close the door.

"don’t lose too much weight.

stupid girls are always trying

to disappear as revenge. and you

are not stupid. you loved a man

with more hands than a parade

of beggars, and here you stand. heart

like a four-poster bed. heart like a canvas.

heart leaking something so strong

they can smell it in the street." 

I will not carry my damage-doll. I will not force her to hide me. I will choose to fully exist this time instead of using her as a crutch. I will clean her, find a beautiful hill to bury her on, let her look out at the ocean for her eternal resting place, and not tell anyone where she is. She deserves to have some quiet. She has been through enough. I'm cutting her loose.