The comfort of clishés

There's something about knowing that other people have felt the same way you have which is oddly comforting. Something about other people telling you that in spite of the pain, the heartache and the hard work you will wake up one day feeling OK.

You're my star, I pin you to my chest

I wish I could have all my friends in one room. I miss my UK friends so much it hurts, hurts more than I thought it would. I'm used to having them round the corner, used to weekly meet-ups and gossip sessions. Used to the support and the outlet.
And as I can't imagine flying back over until this wound has healed or until I have a plan (this whole life thing is turning out to be a lot more complicated than what people made it out to be) and feel strong enough to bump into him without a full scale panic attack I'm having to count of cheap flights for them to come over here.

SO. Really. Scientists really need to get on the case and provide me with some form of teleportation device. Preferably before the end of the week.

There's no men in this town

I need some kind of cheap closeness to start stamping out the physical memory of him.
But there is no one in this town which could live up to my (increasingly low) standards. No one who catches my interest what so ever. And maybe that's a good thing, I guess that at the end of the day you're not meant to pee where you eat.
Still.
I wish this feeling would stop affecting me like an open wound and develop into an itchy scab you want to pick until it falls off and your new, pink skin is visible. I want to leave the heavy, panic inducing feeling behind and feel happy again.
I'm so sick of missing him.

Please please

 

I just want to snog a strangers face off.

And it's hard to dance with a devil on your back

Translating my CV from English into Swedish makes me realize how long it has been since I first left this country. Nearly 7 years in Scotland. 5 flats, 3 boyfriends, several jobs, 1 degree and many tears and laughs later I find myself here. Back home in my parents kitchen (I'm damn lucky they're the kind of parents who happily mix he g&t's and pay for me to hang out in Berlin), where it all began.
I guess people might wonder why I decided to leave, it probably seems like a rushed decision to pack up and move across the North Sea.
It wasn't.
I always knew that if me and him broke up I would need to leave in order to get over him, in order not to sink in to the darkness and drink myself into oblivion. My previous breakups were never this hard, I made the decision to leave those men (boys). I was happy to. I guess a way to explain it is that my last breakup song was "Dog days are over" by Florence and the machine, while now "Shake it out" might describe me better. (describe where I am NOW that is. Before it would have been some kind of depressing 90's mutant of a tearjerker tune).

So I left.
I was sick of the rain, of the rubbish in the streets, of the lack of jobs and the rate of pay.
Sweden is like a safe bubble, nothing can touch me here. And once I'm strong enough I will venture back out into the real world.
But tonight I'm drinking wine in my garden with my oldest friend. And life could be a hell of a lot worse.

"Too young to hold on and too old to just break free and run"

Now, when I cry, it feel like I'm doing it because I should. Like I should get it out of my system.
I've shut down the part of me that cared about him. I avoid thinking about my old home, my old life, my city, my streets. Try to focus on the green grass underneath my feet, the 80s club night in Gothenburg, the wine by the sea, the universities in other countries.
I can feel the stress of what I should do pile up inside of me. I should do so very much... I should apply for schools, jobs, flats. I should know what I want to do, who I want to be. I should act my age and not ten years younger. Maybe I should find a nice guy, a decent job, a home and start a family. Get a car, a garden, a pet. Catch up with my friends who have children and husbands.
Or maybe I should say screw it all and move to a new city, go dancing, drinking, laughing, crying. Find a new love every week and squeeze the most out of my 20's.
Both options have some appeal. Neither one feels right.
So what the hell.
It must start to make sense eventually? Until then I might enjoy the sunshine, have a glass of red and flirt shamelessly with strangers (and cry myself to sleep as I'm mourning the loss of a life).

I am guided by this birthmark on my skin

Berlin in the summer is like a massive playground and although I knew he was returning to the UK and our empty flat I couldn't cry. It was too sunny, I drank too much beer and I had too many thoughts of what this city might be like once the summer ends and the 'real' life starts back up.
Is this where I am meant to be? Is this where I should have my boxes shipped, is this where I will feel happy again?
Happiness eludes me, it's like I'm empty. Maybe because there is a massive void where my love for him used to be, an emptiness. Not having somebody to love is heartbreaking (Freddie Mercury was right all along) and such an unfamiliar feeling after years and years of being a girlfriend.
I'm empty. Not even his voice makes me feel anything, not even sadness. Maybe that's a good thing. But I miss my feelings. I miss looking myself in the mirror and seeing light behind my eyes.