It started the first Christmas I lived in LA. It was my first trip back to Detroit after moving to the west coast and I was a babbling mess. My cheeks were tear-stained, my eyes puffy, my bags packed full of the presents I bought with my first big-girl bonus. I tucked my iPod into the pocket of my fleece, got on the red-eye and hunkered down, attempting to catch a few hours (minutes?) of sleep.
That Christmas I cried a lot. I was thousands of miles away from my family for the first time, permanently. Voluntarily. Indefinitely. Purposefully. I knew exactly what that meant when I moved out here, but Christmas is always difficult for me. The emotion was too much.
Just about two years later, I took a trip to Chicago. And I cried all the way home. I again put on my earphones and layed my head against the window as tears streamed down my face. I cried because my heart was breaking. I had fallenn in love with a city and a way of life and new found confidence and I knew then that I needed to find a way to get back to that. That place I'm looking to go back to now.
For some reason, traveling is emotional. A long car trip to Vegas last year gave me space to think about some really important things that I eventually made happen. I cry on long flights and get all riled up on train rides. I even cried on the car ride from Detroit to Chicago two years ago because of all the memories of the life that I used to live and the dreams I used to have that eventually had to change.
And my latest trip to Detroit and Chicago was no different. If everything works out according to "plan", this will have been my last flight from Detroit to LA as a Cali girl. The next time I get on that plane I'll have an MBA after my name, a new job, a new address
So I cried because I'm scared and lonely. Because I'm afraid that my plans will actually work out. And that they might not. I cried because I'm already nostalgic. Because my heart breaks every time I even think about leaving my life and my friends here. My love.
But tears are OK. I think they're good even. I come from a long line of weapers, and it's a way of knowing that we're feeling. And I feel intensely. Sometimes I regreat that I'm so sensetive, but mostly I'm grateful. Grateful that I have things to cry about.