One time I went to Canada…

Okay. So I made it to 23 and then decided to fuck off to Canada. Literally packed my favourite pair of Ralph Lauren Jeans (£10 TK Maxx), my GHDs and my passport into my trusty backpack and with the aid of a friend, got on a plane to Canada in the space of 12 hours from irrational decision to take-off.

It was the most heart breaking thing I did. See not for me. I was the epitome of knowing better-let me live my life-obnoxiously young bleurgh. Life was difficult and I needed to get away. You know same old Millennial shit-Different day.

But for my poor parents, who I just left behind with not even a phone call goodbye, it was like I had died. And then I made two amazing friends in Canada. Who I wish I could see everyday. They probably feel like I deserted them. However, Canada has ridiculous visa requirements and if I had the required access to $2500 in my account, I would blow it all on duty-free before I got there with just enough for a Double-Double on landing. And it broke all our hearts when I had to get back on that plane at Edmonton. I cried for the whole flight back, missing them already. And also a little because I didn’t realise you had to book your food with your seat and I though I was going to be emaciated on arrival at Gatwick.

But yeah… It was not my best idea. Do not get me wrong. I do not regret going for the people I met. And the experiences I had. But the damage it caused within my family was atomic. Just really bloody awful. Because see the thing is. I spoke to my parents the morning I left. But I did’t tell them I was leaving. Thought I had got this all figured out. But when I came home to them, the disappointment was overwhelming. They still loved me and was so happy I was home. But I could see what I had done to them both.

Why on earth did I think flying across the Atlantic Ocean would magically solve my issues when I have everything I needed here at home. Well. Truthfully after an emotionally and somewhat physically traumatic few months, I just needed space to friggin’ breathe. To just get away. It did me the world of good in the sense I got to 100% be me. Everyday. And just forget for a little bit how it felt to be permanently angry.

If you have read this and you want to run away, don’t run with the intent to never come home. You need to find a sanctuary for only a little while. Just a little bit of respite to heal your internal wounds and any psychological manifestations holding you back.

But don’t do it how I did it. Don’t hurt the people that love you. Even if your parents do your fucking head in or your mates all seem dickheads-don’t desert them. Do it the right way.


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