The thought of leaving doesn’t make me cry, it doesn’t make me sad, it doesn’t make me feel anything. Leaving my bed, my friends, my town; not knowing what is about to come. It has all left me blank. I’m not crying about the times we had, rather rejoicing in the fact that we had them.
These past two years have been tough, and honestly, I deserve a fresh start, a three year holiday, a pub crawl. I deserve to have a good time and to not cling onto what has kept me in Romford and at Frances Bardsley for seven years.
Leaving home brings back memories. The ones where we would splurge our parents’ money at the arcade and when the cinema was the only thing we did. Now I’ll splurge my money on bills, alcohol, and travel. I’ll take control of my life and cut ties. Let go of toxic people, find friends and shyly shuffle over to introduce myself as “Meg” — not “Brittany,” “Meggie,” “Meggle,” “Potter” or any name I’ve been christened with. Just Meg. And these people will know just “Meg” and create new names, new meanings — create friendships.
Leaving home means saying goodbye to friends. Friends who have built me a lighthouse just so I can find my way. Friends who have unleashed things that I didn’t want to hear, but needed to. Friends that have become more like family. It’s hard, but it’s not permanent. Friendships are like pets, they just need love and care, then they’ll be yours until the day you die. Friendships that have lasted through rainy days, through arguments, through illnesses.
Yes, I am leaving it behind — but no, I am not upset. I’m content. I know I’ve had seven long years of friendship, and now I am able to go make more bonds that could last just as long. Sometimes all you need is some Vod to lead you a little astray but then bring you back to earth when needed.
Leaving home isn’t scary or sad or exciting, it’s exactly what it says. It’s just leaving.