I fell in love with London like I fell in love with my first boyfriend.
I wanted it all, all the time. I loved every corner, every smell and every one. The bad stuff I loved it too. Even when I didn’t want to, I taught myself to enjoy the things I knew weren’t right for me. My love was too strong, young and extreme. I was passionate about the architecture, the history but mostly addicted to this strong sense of belonging. I belonged to this city that many loved too. I was the city. I was the 24/7 supermarkets. I was the sarcasm. I was the British accent. I was the busy commuters. I was the drunk 20 somethings on the last tube home.
For a long time the thought of leaving this city was heartbreaking and I kept finding excuses to stay. Surely I could not leave London as I had bought three cool lasagne dishes and wouldn’t possibly be able to leave those behind. Like with my first love, I allowed myself to be sad, to get hurt, to surround myself with the wrong people. I thought it was my fault if I wasn’t happy. I was in the greatest city in the world. Vanessa what is wrong with you? How can you not be fulfilled? What was I not getting right? Was I not good enough? Surely my love was enough, right? Right?
I have now learnt that sometimes love is not enough. You gotta extract the right love for the right time. It’s a thing you can’t explain. You can only feel it. London made me lazy, bitter, depressed. I was not always a good person. But it was not London’s fault. You will always remember the good old times with the first love of your life. And this is how I think of London today. I feel relieved that I have finally understood that ‘it’s not you, it’s me‘.