I've tried to leave London before. Or, I've certainly thought a lot about it.
I went to the new city that's to become my home for a decent chunk of time once before but, although I loved it, it didn't seem right to stay. Now I realise what was really happening: It's not that I wasn't ready to stay, it's that I wasn't ready to leave London.
All my young life I dreamed of moving to London, living life in the big city, commuting to work on the tube, striding through town with a briefcase and a purpose - a big-shot girl-about-town. The day I walked towards what has been my place of work for the last decade all this flashed through my mind with such clarity that it brought me up short. I stopped dead in the street and looked at the building. I actually work here.
When I dipped my toe in the water 5 years ago, toying with the idea of moving on, I was a long way from ready. The water was warm, but it was fear of the current that kept me from going in. Inertia in all her glory keeping me from being willing to submit myself to being swept away from the good things I'd come to know.
The other day my therapist asked me to explain how I'm feeling about the move right now, in these last days. Whilst there is the mix of excitement and grief, at the moment I feel like I'm just going with the flow: The decisions have been made (ticket bought, notice given, flat sold, and room rented) and, having stepped into the stream, I'm now simply moving with the now-unchangeable force that is leaving. I may as well sit back and enjoy the ride.
It's going to be emotional.
