I’m back in London for a week in March.
The weather is dull and grey when I arrive, and it feels comfortingly familiar. I missed it the way you miss cigarettes once you’ve quit smoking. Like you’re ready to throw away all the time apart just for one puff of nostalgia.
That’s exactly how London feels to me, pure masochism under a thin layer of fondness. I look around and all I see are memories I would be better off forgetting and places I would be better off not revisiting (or vice versa).
It’s fitting that to get to London I have a 10-hour commute, perfect to build the suspense. I spend the whole train ride there wondering what will become of me once I arrive. I always try to show up to my hometown with a positive outlook, but it’s hard when I know what’s coming. The same that always happens.
Crossing county lines undoes the careful distance I’ve tried to place between who I am now and who I used to be; I find myself picking fights, ignoring friends, and skipping meals. How did I transform into a petulant teenager just five months shy of my 24th birthday?
If there’s an opposite to rose-coloured glasses, that’s what I have when I’m in London. Everything looks dark and disappointing. There’s an LCBO at every corner calling my name and a growing homelessness problem that feels too overwhelming to even acknowledge. All of my friends have moved away, my ex lives too close for comfort, and, frankly, I am bored. I hate it here. Everything here hates me. Even the family dogs, who probably can see the tension in my face from the moment I enter the house.
I am too awkward to fit into the clothes in my closet or the attitude I used to have. Still, when I’m in my hometown it’s all I have, so I wear it with my head held high, daring anyone to ask me why I haven’t grown up. Secretly though, I am deeply unsettled at the person I am when I am in London. I find her to be uptight, moody, and impulsive. The last time I was here I made some questionable decisions that included dyeing my hair red and sneaking out at 1AM. I don’t have any faith I am a smarter person than I was 6 months ago, but I find my way back to my hometown all the same.
I think most of my negative perspective on London is self-flagellation in disguise. I tear myself down without mercy for the stupid things I did between the ages of 0 to 18, then tear myself down again for remembering them. Some might call it discipline but really it’s just rumination. I am my own worst critic; doomed to relive the fragmented memories ignited by the streets I pass as I drive around town.
Something about London feels all-consuming, so I treat it as such. I’ve never had to act any differently. I always manage to escape the town I grew up in before it eats me whole. Since I know I will leave, I don’t have to self-reflect. I can come into London like a hurricane, knock everything off balance, and leave just as quickly as I came. Once I arrive back at my apartment in Montreal, I plead temporary insanity and move on.
I used to tell my mom that I couldn’t wait to move away. True to my word, I left home at 18. Although my problems didn’t stay behind as expected, the worst of my mistakes could be easily passed over in the stories of my life when they weren’t as close. Even if I know it’s not true, the mentality that my problems are hidden in the dark corners of my childhood bedroom persists. I never thought to dig deeper than that, perfectly comfortable with the ‘big bad’ I had decreed London to be.
I hate my hometown because it’s all I know about it.
Why It’s Not That Bad (a reprise)
I’m back in London for a weekend in July.
I see my father for the first time in months, and we hug tightly. I smell like a musty train, but neither of us seems to care. My sister is having a baby, so we throw her a party and I gift her a onesie with a blue truck. We drive down to visit my brother and have dinner with my mother. Between bites of sushi, I talk fast and relish in our warm reunion. After a few days of cautious avoidance, the family dog sits beside me on the couch while my father and I watch an action movie. Overall, the trip goes well. I don’t smoke any cigarettes.
On my last night sleeping in my childhood bed, I started to think back on all the times I’ve visited London since moving away. I always swear it’ll be worse than it ends up being, which makes me think about before I moved away. The moments that so closely mirror the very things that made this current trip enjoyable. There are memories galore to sift through of laughter and love. Just looking around my room reveals a treasure trove of random items that serve as reminders of good days. If London usually feels like a cigarette when you’re trying to quit, the emotions I feel now are like a breath of fresh air.
Coming back from London, still with a brutal commute, I have a lot to consider. I know that the remnants of teenage angst have clouded my judgment in the past. I wonder why I sunk my teeth so deeply into resentment, why I am so comfortable tasting bitterness. I find it hard to take my previous petulance seriously as I wait for my connecting flight; it feels like I was someone else before. As an adult, I am no longer interested in stamping my feet and shaking my head just because my hometown has some problems attached to it. There is no reason to hold onto the hurt that I am healing from.
Sure, I could still plead temporary insanity for some of the things I do when I’m home. Living out of a bag in my childhood room definitely brings out parts of me I thought I’d outgrown. I am a different person in London compared to Montreal, but does different mean worse? What’s more, I have to acknowledge my agency. I choose to come back to my hometown, which means I can choose who I am when I visit. Maybe the first step to learning to love my hometown is choosing to know my hometown.
I won’t pretend I don’t have my reasons to hate it; there’s been a lot of bad things that happened there, but there’s also been a lot of good. I liked my childhood here. I had my first kiss at the local movie theatre. I worked my first minimum-wage job here. I went to prom in a dress I saved up all my money. I fell in love here with a boy who taught me important lessons. I learned what it meant to be a sister. I found a wonderful group of friends that I still visit in different cities. I graduated high school and walked across the stage with my head held high. It has the house I grew up in, the house I had my first party in, the house I found out I was leaving, the house I called home for 18 years.
Maybe my hometown isn’t that bad, maybe I’m ready to get to know it.
Dedicated to the people I love, who remind me of London in the best way.
Simone Brown 
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