How to Move On and Away: A Manual

You’ve assigned a memory to every freckle on your skin, reminiscing only when you turn your back on your reflection and think, "Yes, I remember you."

Step 1: When you break up with your best friend for not the first time but the last time, you’ll consider staying anyway. No, you won’t have the apartment with them—the too-small one because you insisted on living downtown, which you always dreamt of; the walls thick with tension as they close in, listening for the last thread of hope to break, which you never imagined would happen.

You know, now, it wouldn’t have the window light seeping in and shelves full of plants and books. The truth is uglier: the bathtub would always smell like bleach and the ashtray would always be full, and it would never really work out how you thought it would. So, no—instead of driving to her, you turn the corner away from your first and last shared apartment. You realize then that if you stay, you’ll never bring yourself to leave.

Step 2: Everyone starts to ask you what your plan is. It makes sense, after all; May is creeping up on you, and with it, your impending future. You thought you had it all figured out a while ago, but now the life you’d mapped out is sucking the air out of you like a pair of jeans you’ve outgrown. You feel the frustration, the anxiety, the disappointment in yourself when the button doesn’t snap closed anymore. It’s that dressing room panic, when you realize something you wanted so badly just isn’t meant for you.

Step 3: You make the decision in your mind suddenly as you drive over the hill you’ve driven over every day for the past four years. You feel the realization coursing through you that you won’t be living here much longer. It was always the plan, and now, with the turn of your steering wheel and your heart plunging into your stomach, it’s not anymore. You’re growing up, and this town doesn’t fit you any better than those stupid jeans. 

Step 3b: Or maybe you always knew this would happen. Maybe you were dying to leave. Maybe the breakup was anticipated. Maybe you saw this all coming. But does it matter? You’re packing your bags the same way regardless; you’re leaving the way you came regardless.

Step 4: You’re a pro at leaving things behind. People, places, things. You tossed away your childhood scrapbooks, you’ve written novels that you’ll never read again, you light a match to convince yourself that you’re ready to start over. And yet, somehow, you’ve never been good at goodbyes. You don’t know how to practice for one, either. All you know how to say is a half-hearted “See you around," to the people you love and grew with, unsure of when you’ll actually see them again. All you know how to do is leave, onto a future that none of them will be a part of. It feels final, as these things usually do. The hourglass has run out; the curtain has closed. There are no more bows to take.

Step 5: Ever since you discovered that closure isn’t something given to you, it’s something you make, you became obsessed with moving on. You’ve created your own closure a million times to compensate for its lack. You’ve closed doors too earnestly, not thinking you’d ever want to open them again. You threw away the key only to search for it again under the welcome mat. You haven’t lingered in years, but now you find yourself standing in the doorway.

Step 5b: In Washington, D.C., there’s a lock on a railing near the Tidal Basin. An ex-boyfriend put it there; it was supposed to be romantic, you think, but you were only 17, so you can’t tell. Its key now sits at the bottom of the reservoir. You walk by that spot years later, looking for it without wanting to admit you’re looking for it. You find it in the same spot it was placed, painted over with the rest of the railing.

Step 5c: See, these imprints will never leave you. You’ve forgotten names but remembered moments. You’ve assigned a memory to every freckle on your skin, reminiscing only when you turn your back on your reflection and think, Yes, I remember you.

Step 6: I promise you will feel like a teenager no matter what you do. Moving on doesn’t mean growing up. You will always feel 15.

Step 7: You don’t have a choice here, I’m sorry. The door will close on its own anyway. But just because you broke up with your best friend doesn’t mean she wasn’t your best friend. You moved out of your first apartment, but that doesn’t mean you didn’t sleep on its floors. People you don’t know now breathe where you breathed, but that doesn’t mean you weren’t just as alive.

Step 8: Your boyfriend will be afraid to say he loves you. He’ll want to save it for occasions, concerned that it'll lose its meaning if he says it too much. “That’s stupid,” you’ll say immediately. “We’re not doing that.” Soon, there’s an I love you after every phone call, every stoplight, every meal. You wake up with it on your tongue so often that you memorize its taste.

Step 8b: Just because it already happened doesn’t mean it isn’t special anymore; and if you’re lucky enough for it to happen twice, that doesn’t take away its magic. It simply means that what all your favorite memories have in common is that you were in them.

Step 9: You move on. You look back now and then, and are afraid you’ll turn to stone, but you never do. You never move in its direction, either. You do, however, smile at the freckles dotting your arms; sometimes, you even let yourself count them. But you have to turn around eventually.

Step 10: You step back from the threshold. You close the door. You don’t throw the key in the river this time.

Yes, I managed to give you a personal essay before the month ended so I can still say this is a monthly newsletter. Hold your applause.

If you’re a writer (nerd) like me, you might know that tomorrow is the beginning of Escapril AKA National Poetry Month, in which we try to write a poem a day! I’ll be posting my prompts tomorrow morning and creating a groupchat with those of you who replied to my poll. If you’re interested, this groupchat is for accountability, community, and sharing our work during Escapril, and it’s not too late to join! Shoot me a message on Instagram if you want to get in on the fun.

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Thank you for your endless patience and love. Couldn’t be here without you, but you knew that already.

✮ Paula ✮