About Me
Hey, I’m Jennifer, the Downtown Kid. That’s me singing at The Peabody Hotel’s NYE party a few years ago with my old band. Man… such a great night.
In May of 2017, I decided I was done with the ‘burbs, and I took everything I needed to survive from my obnoxiously large house in the country and moved to Downtown Memphis, straight into The Core, our city’s most happening spot apparently. The famous Peabody Hotel is my neighbor, and I’m in walking distance to everything awesome, from the Farmer’s Market on South Main to Beale Street to Court Square up North Main and everything in between. My building is one of those amazing redos of a historic spot, and I’m stoked to have gotten in.
As my people found out I’d run off to the 38103, they told me I was nuts. Everyone loved my country place. Just shy of 2800 sq. ft., 2.5 acres, great schools (no kids, don’t care), massive workshop with a lift bay in it, blah blah blah. Quick history lesson – I bought that house with an ex a million years ago, but when we split up, I got it. Over the years that followed, other relationships — codependent stabs at happiness — ensued in that fortress.
Might sound a touch melodramatic, but one in particular completely destroyed me and left me feeling more worthless than anything else I’d ever experienced. Truth be told, I was basically grieving myself to death, and that house got simply oppressive. Ghosts and all. At times, my anxiety ran so high that I literally couldn’t breathe.
So, what do you do when you hate to go home to a place you just can’t call home?? You get the hell out before it kills you.
Now, initially, I didn’t do myself any favors. My mom lived with me back in the ‘burbs, so at least I had a buddy versus going off to be solo. I’m pretty extroverted, and I struggled with the aloneness at first, which was all the more reason to do it. I was almost 37, and moving downtown was the first time I’d lived without a roommate in my life.
And I thrust myself straight into even more memories and ghosts of good times with the ex. It used to be that there wasn’t a place on Main Street that I didn’t see him smiling lovingly at me (at least what I once believed was lovingly) or us laughing on a patio somewhere sharing drinks and great food and living the most amazing love story time has ever written. …until it wasn’t. Until his narcissism became impossible to deny and even more impossible to live through.
But here I am. Downtown Memphis. I gave myself twice the commute to work, an amazing new set of bills, and all the temptation of just being able to walk downstairs and let someone else cook dinner instead of cooking for myself like a grown-up, which is totally overrated by the way.
So… what did I hope to get from the move?
I. have. no. clue.
Everyone kept telling me to go “do me” and “figure out who I am again,” but what does that even mean??? No, really — What do those action items actually look like? Is there a book on Kindle about that? I’d totally download it. So, I guess I’m here to “do me,” whatever the hell that means.
But why talk about it? Why make a blog? Why share my experiences with everyone? Because somehow, in my head, dropping myself into the middle of these ghosts and memories sounded like the way to make it heal faster. That’s not necessarily how it’s all gone down, of course. It got a lot worse before it got even kinda better. I thought maybe sharing all this stuff — how downtown’s both broken me and rebuilt me (while letting folks know where to get the best Pad Thai) — would give me a little chance at healing from all the old traumas that brought me here and the ones that followed me a year later. Might even be fun. Might even help someone else trying to find their way through emotional abuse.
My narcissist ex used to call me “kid.” When it started a few years back, I thought it was totally condescending, and it kinda was, but then it evolved into this term of endearment that made my heart soar when I heard it, which wasn’t often enough. But that’s where “Downtown Kid” comes from, ‘cause, you know, the kid moved downtown. Campy, I guess, but back when I still thought that the guy would follow through on maybe just one thing he promised, it made me smile, and you hang on to those things when you find them. Now that I’m in my therapy as deep as I am, I’m reclaiming “kid” for my own, playful means.
So really, I guess this is about finding a reason to smile again. Therapy. Healing. Living. Two cats. “Doing me.” And tacos — because tacos are delicious. Welcome to The Downtown Kid, a little bit of everything, and even if no one ever gives it a second glance, perhaps it’ll help me find myself again.
Lovingly yours,
