this one was more of a diary entry than a blog post but when its my personal blog it can be both: on sundays, i didnt wind my spring
Stepping off the train in Manchester is my all time favourite feeling. No where else on Earth compares to that city. I could write love letter after love letter to her. In my current bid to try and find a job down there and move permanently, I’ve often been left feeling as if I’m waiting for my life to start. If you, dear reader, are familiar with this feeling then you will be aware of how agonising it is. Nothing feels quite as draining as things not coming together even though you’re trying. Of course I have days where I’d rather rip my own eyes out than write another cover letter - and on those days I try not to be so hard on myself. But Sundays are the day before a new week starts and it is very hard to motivate yourself to do anything on Sundays. I’m sure this analogy is not lost on you.
I miss my life down in Manchester. I had it pretty made. A group of the best friends anyone could ask for, a house to call our home, financial security, and I was in a relationship that brought me genuine happiness. All of those things have gone now and I find myself often writing about them in my journal and dreaming about them in my sleep. I am at home now but this does not feel like home. I am, yet again, waiting for my life to restart. I am waiting for the nomadic years of my life, moving from flat to flat and house to house, to end. I want to settle somewhere and make it my home. Security and stability are often overlooked but I see now that these are my priorities. I have no space for insecurity and instability, I have had uncertainty for too long.
I feel guilty. My life here is not so bad. I have a job which is more than can be said for many people at present, and I like it there. I’m good friends with everyone at that pub and we hang out outside of work too – something you wouldn’t do with people you did not sincerely like. I have a roof over my head and food in my cupboards. But I am unhappy. I try to remind myself that that is not selfish but I do feel guilty for talking so much to the people here about the life I had there.
My support network is not here either. My closest friends live in Wales, Liverpool, Manchester, Oxford, Essex, and Leeds. Scattered feels like an appropriate word. Disconnected, too. I am not close with my mother and being here with just her feels forced and superficial. I’m aware that this will end up on the internet but to be honest, I think, is important.
My coping mechanisms have not changed though. I am at my happiest when I am walking around city centres, spending too much money on eggs on toast and oat milk lattes, buying music and books and going home and listening and reading both from cover to cover that very night. I enjoy being outside (typical Sagittarius behaviour) and walking my dog through the field and down by the beach is always therapeutic. Writing in my journal is something I’ve done since I was a child and a habit I hope to maintain eternally. There really is nothing more amusing than looking back and reading that you used to think your boyfriend was way too cool to ever be sincerely interested in someone like you. Hindsight is a funny thing.
I look back on my Mancunian life with a fondness I reserve only for the things I hold closest to my heart. I yearn to be there again. And I will soon. For now, all I can do is continue to write cover letters citing ‘from the outset and throughout’ from the Geordie Shore opening credits, go to artisan coffee shops, and write about my deepest fears and worries on a public blog.
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