Member-only story
On Learning To Be A Stranger In My Hometown
The old hangouts now feel like haunted houses. I’m fumbling words with old friends, tossing around stale stories that just make me sad.
It’s July of 2018. I have just packed up my things and moved across the country from Detroit, Michigan to Denver, Colorado in hopes of a fresh start, a chance to reinvent myself without my past hovering above me, waiting to remind me of everything I’ve done wrong and all that I still lack. I figured a place where I barely knew a soul would give me the blank canvas I needed to paint the picture of the person I not only wanted to be but was absolutely positive I was destined to become.
In Denver, I would become a hiker, a craft beer drinker, and a mindful yogi with six-pack abs. I’d snag a hot, bearded boyfriend and he’d find me fascinating and whimsical. Most importantly, he’d always compliment my mind, something I always thought would be the end of me but wasn’t. In Denver, I would finally have that feeling of home I’d been craving. I’d finally become me.
Of course, like most things in life, none of these dreams ever made their way to reality.
I’m asthmatic with bad knees, so hiking was, uh, miserable? For better and for worse, Miller Lite will always be my beer of…
