Ghana Heal a Broken Heart
I realize running off to Africa isn’t the usual response to a broken heart,
but it made perfect sense to me at the time. You see, I’d had an
epiphany: quitting a man is like quitting smoking. You may know you
should quit, you may even know it’s what’s best for you, but until you
actually want to stop you never will. I personally found quitting smoking
far easier than quitting James.

During those final days when I desperately did not want to think about
him, even his name popped up all over the city. You can’t really get
away from the name James. It’s everywhere. Especially in London,
where (even though I am American) I lived at the time. It’s a tube stop
(St. James Park), one of my favorite restaurants (Just St. James), and
seemed to also be the name of half the population.

One night I went to a club in a futile attempt to take my mind off of him.
Spotting a cute guy over near the bar, I sauntered over to him flashing
a smile and tossing my blonde hair back off my shoulder in an oh-so-
subtle move to get his attention. After he offered to buy me a drink, I
introduced myself. Guess what his name turned out to be? That’s right,
James. Were parents really unimaginative around the late 1970s? Or
was this some sort of elaborate, universal conspiracy against the
recently dumped to bombard us with memories of exes we wished to
forget?

As the relationship crumbled, I found myself moving beyond simply
worrying about what would happen into sheer obsession. Instead of the
reasonably mature 27-year-old I liked to imagine myself being, I had
reverted into a tormented teenager with her first crush checking the
phone every thirty seconds to make sure I hadn’t somehow missed it
ringing or the beep of a text message.

So, quite clearly hopping on a plane to Africa made the most logical
sense. After all, how many James’ could there possibly be in Ghana?
Excerpt from Book
“If you’re going through hell, keep going.”
-
Winston Churchill