When this story started, I was a somewhat newly single twenty-something living in Washington Heights who loved going to the gym. I had an amazing group of people in my life that supported me in every decision, even (especially) the ones involving tequila. And I had a rude cat who hated everyone except me, plus also kind of hated me too.
That’s about where the similarities end between the LB that started this blog, and the one who is writing it now. She had long blonde hair, two tattoos, wore heels every day, spent Saturdays getting happy drunk to celebrate anything, which could turn to sloppy drunk real quick if she started to feel feelings. She was confident (mostly), and she was happy (mostly), and she was content to be single (mostly). She also opened her heart up too quickly too many times and allowed herself to be blinded by a fantasy of what would make her happy, truly. Lately I’ve been reading through the old stories here and I remember each one so well: every moment, every date, every brush with love, every single heartbreak, and even a solid 70-odd percent of the poor decisions.
She is me and I am Her but somehow we are different. The person who started this blog is like a Russian nesting doll inside me now, one I can uncover when confronted with lessons we learned by writing our experiences down here. In a dark moment in February, when it felt my life was finally coming together and simultaneously falling apart, I went back and read the very first post on this blog, and I found her waiting for me. ‘Remember,’ she said, ‘we’ve been through this before. You made it through before, too.’ That moment felt really powerful, and I think it’s drawn me away from really committing to this space since. Much as I’ve still been writing, it’s not the way it once was, carefully planned and edited stories to say it right. Any part of me on here lately has been rushed, a stolen moment of weakness on another late subway ride, and it hasn’t accurately reflected my current life for a while now. The Chronicle is something that my old life needed but my new life doesn’t; it’s come around full-circle in just a few short years, and that’s why I think it’s time for me to walk away.
My story isn’t over; it’s still only barely begun. But this story, I think, is over. All of the dates, the love, the heartbreak and every single bad decision is immortalized on here for myself and for each of you in the times you think no one will understand what you’re going through. I’ve been through most of it, one way or another, and not only have I come out the other side, but I’ve thrived. The life I’m living now is so different from the life that started The Chronicle. It’s not just different, either, it’s better. It’s the best life I can imagine for myself, better than anything these pages could have dreamt on that dreary February where I logged onto WordPress for the first time and gave this page my initials.
In the worst decisions, in the lowest of times, I will be grateful forever that I had a place to organize my thoughts, my emotions. I will remember each rooftop brunch and each terrible day at work and every ounce of hope in each of these pages. Hope for something bigger than a job that made me not-quite happy, hope for a relationship where they would treat me more than mostly well, hope for a happiness I knew existed but hadn’t yet grasped.
It was the best decision to start this blog, which started with the worst decision. It’s now the right decision to let this story go.
I love you all so much.