Sometimes I worry that I’ve lost that girl carrying nothing but a notebook and a travel guide – or that she’s trapped under a bunch of paint swatches and wedding invitation options. And sometimes I worry that I will never see her again.
Rich was the adventurous type. When he and I reunited after years of not speaking, he had become a travel agent. He would spend three months working himself to the bone, saving every penny possible, and would then take a month off and go to some random country for three weeks only to come back and do it all over again.
As much as I hated to see him leave, I would always look forward to his return and the pictures and stories that came with it. Before we parted ways, Rich and I planned to travel the world together – getting hammered in Ireland, baked in Amsterdam, rock climbing in Italy…
It’s as though Rich and Bryan are two different sides of me – Rich is the adventure-seeking irresponsible asshole part of me, and Bryan is the responsible, soon to become financially stable, wanting to have a family and a life together part of me. Yet, for some reason, I’ve been under the impression that it’s impossible for me to be both of these people – that I had to choose between two parts of myself. “Neither can live while the other survives.” kind of deal.
It seemed that my mind allowed me to believe that to leave one man behind would mean losing a version of myself I would never again be able to regain. And thus I was left in this tragic predicament – which one of my selves could I stand to lose? Furthermore, could I live and be at peace with that loss? The answer is just as complicated as the question.