My grandmother passed away from a long battle with pneumonia and left me her home. Months had passed since her funeral, and I was still dealing with the loss of the one person I’d loved most in the world. I referred to her as my sweet Gigi. While she relentlessly encouraged me to follow my dreams, I still felt guilty for moving hundreds of miles away for art school and the pursuit of an art career.
No amount of accomplishments compared to her unconditional love, or her famous Sunday morning buttery biscuits. God, those biscuits were pure heaven. Gigi must have packed them with crack or something wicked - they were that good.
The thought of owning the house I’d grown up in overwhelmed me with nostalgia and a longing to get back to the place I called home – beautiful North Carolina.
Maybe everything did happen for a reason.
Maybe my life had hit rock bottom because there was something better waiting for me. Could it be that Gigi wanted me to return to my roots?
Perhaps I was supposed to have a horrible relationship with the man I once called the one – so I could take a step back and grow into my own skin.
Or, maybe I was bat shit crazy!
There was only one way to find out – and I was convinced that North Carolina was that way. I had to at least give it go. I owed Gigi that much.
When my parents split, my mother relied heavily on her to help care for me. My father cheated on my mother multiple times, and then she fell into drugs and alcohol to cope with her troubles. To say that part of my childhood was a complete shit show would have been an understatement.
Gigi was my rock, my support, and my sole source of encouragement my entire teenage life. She even supported me through art school in New York City. She fought for my dreams, harder than anyone ever had. She was my guardian angel.
I missed her so damn much it hurt. Now, I knew she was watching over me from a distance.
I just prayed I wouldn’t let her down.
***
So, you’re just going to leave without a word?
Groaning at the text message from my ex, Daryl, I tossed my phone onto the airplane tray in front of me. I was on my flight to North Carolina, and he wouldn’t stop messaging me. Leave without a word? I broke up with him over a month ago.
Daryl was demeaning and cynical throughout our entire relationship – except of course the honey-moon period that lasted for just a few months after we met. He assumed he knew everything there was to know about the art world. He constantly told me to find something practical to do with my art degree; like teach or give lessons. Not once believing I could showcase my artwork in galleries – even though I proved him wrong a few times.
Struggling as an artist from the ground up took a great deal of work and mustering of courage and fighting my own self-doubts. Coupling all that with my Daryl’s insults made things a million times worse.
He didn’t believe in me. And I’d put up with his shit for way too long. After the break up, the man had the balls to accuse me of everything from cheating to using him for his money. He claimed my art was more important to me than him, and I had half a mind to tell him he was right.
My art never judged me or mocked me.
It never told me I wasn’t good enough. It didn’t make fun of me whenever I wore the wrong type of dress to a cocktail party, and it sure as hell never told me my dreams were invalid.
Of course my art was more important than him. Because Daryl was a dick.
When are you coming back?
What part of breaking up did he not understand? He was out of his mind if he thought I was going to come back. Not after all the fights and all the digs and jabs I endured just to try and see the good in him. I gave him everything, until I had nothing more to give.
After everything I gave you, the least you could do is answer me.
I picked up my phone and opened the messenger. I poised my fingers to fly across the screen as my vision began to turn red. I crafted response after response of hurtful accusations in my head, debating on which one to send him that would shut him up for good.
But I knew that wasn’t the answer. I didn’t want to bring more pain into an already fucked up situation. The plain fact was we weren’t right for each other. I was going to take the high road now a
nd cut my losses.
Settling on a message for my ex, my fingers worked. I kept it short and sweet, telling him that we both needed to accept the reality of the situation. We had our chance, and now it was time for us to go our separate ways and that I wished him the best. No grudges. No hard feelings.
Then I sent the message and turned off my phone so I could enjoy the rest of the flight. I needed time to think.
While I had some success with my art in New York, I hadn’t reached the potential I knew I had inside of me. I was told my work wasn’t modern enough or sharp enough for the audience that the city attracted. Some galleries suggested that I should try going to the Midwest or even down south.