kiwifruit's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- You CAN go home again Nothing like coming home to make you feel all small and weird and nervous inside. Driving up the road to the house, pointing out to Patrick � �That is where I went to grade school, where I went to daycare, that house is where I used to baby sit and the evil girl would eat cat food just to torture me �� Fast approaching the house. And the house is still there, just like always, and nothing has changed except everything about me has changed and nothing feels the same in me anymore. And all sorts of memories come leaking in, seeping around me � and I think of all the times I have driven this road in different stages of life, with different people next to me in the car or all alone. And I think of the times I have driven this road to come home to sleep, to eat, or to not sleep and not eat, or to eat and throw up. Coming to the house to cry or to laugh feeling happy or sad or a mixture of both. And I am feeling my age and all the transformations I have made � it is scary. Mostly, approaching the house I feel scared, scared because here I am in this place that I so wanted to escape, and now I have,and driving up the road, I feel like exactly the same person I always have been, and I didn�t think I was that person anymore. And it is good to be home. It is good to see Mom and Eli and Jim and all the other people that float in and out of the house, the people who have floated in and out of my life for years. And the artwork and pictures on the walls still tell stories, and hold memories and hint at past events and lives. And all the adults look basically the same, and all the kids seem to have tripled in size. My brother�s friends are all big, hulk-like teenagers now. They drive cars, they have curfews � and I can say I remember when you were just a baby. I remember when you were an innocent looking little kid. I remember when I used to hold my brother in my arms, his legs wrapped around my waist. I remember when I felt responsible for making things in his life right, or if not right, at least different than mine. And now that seems unnecessary and silly because he is all grown up and didn�t really need my help at all. Maybe I could use some advice from him � he certainly knows how to save money better than I do, and he certainly seems more relaxed about life than I ever was. So Friday night we get to Vermont and we drink wine and beer and talk and I have lost all energy to try and candy coat things for Patrick, so I just let it all happen. He seems to do well, I can�t be responsible for him anyway, I�ve got myself to hold together. Saturday morning he leaves to visit his family and we hug each other goodbye and he says �I don�t want to go� because he has his own family lions to wrestle, and I say �I don�t want you to leave me here�. Really, no matter how wonderful your family is, time with them leaves you feeling wrung out, emotionally exhausted. All the shit you thought was long gone comes bubbling forth. You are still a child in their eyes. You still have so much wrong with you, you are still making the same mistakes over and over and over again. Me, I am still irresponsible (and I am), I am still living my life in disagreeable ways, I am still talking and not doing, I am still eating disordered, I am still selfish � I have still not kept many promises, not paid back many parental loans � I am still guilty. To hear my mother say that I �haven�t changed at all�, that �No one really changes� is disheartening, because all I see about myself since I have been in NY is change. And she, more than anyone else, should know that people CAN and DO change. Sure, we are still walking around in the same shell, and we still carry the same baggage. But we have either learned or forgotten things, we have chosen to do certain things with the shell, we have chosen to carry our baggage a certain way � or we have tossed our baggage in to the nearest closet or river to lighten the load. Only here, things don�t change much, and I feel remnants of feeling stuck and crazy and restless. I know that some people choose to live here, that they like it here, that there are things that life here has to offer � but I just want to run away screaming. I feel like all the old monkeys on my back are still waiting here for me packed away in the barn with God only knows what else. I feel like they are ready to leap on again and catch a ride back to NY. I haven�t taken Prozac (those magical little green and white pills) in almost a year � and I am ready to down a bottle. I have come to peace with my body (somewhat and comparatively speaking) � and here I can understand why I would want to starve, or puke or mix it up a little and do both. In the most peaceful of places, I feel like I have lost all control, and I need to get back to the crazy city in order to relax. This house holds so many ghosts I feel like I am bumping in to things all the time. And as much as things change � the more they stay the same. Tomorrow Patrick arrives at some point and we journey home. But I feel like I have a funk upon me that I need to wash off before I get in the car. Maybe it is just because I ate too much while I was here, or smoked too many cigarettes. I feel the need to run twenty miles. I am wracked with anxiety. I feel like my life in the city doesn�t exist, and I have only been gone for three days � I am worried I will come back and it will all be a dream. And I am sitting here realizing that there are things I should do � 1. I have so much work to do (the office is calling me, I panic that I am no good at my job, that I haven�t been putting enough time in). 2. I should probably suck it up and sign the lease at my apartment in Park Slope, I haven�t really gone in to detail about what is happening there. But I will explain another time, I was feeling as if I couldn�t commit to the apartment for a year (AWHOLE YEAR!). Especially since I am home so rarely and I am constantly looking for a place in Manhattan so I don�t have to commute on the ol� F train anymore which always makes me either cranky or nauseous, or both. But how is a person ever supposed to feel settled or at home in a state of constant motion? Maybe having a place that is �home� would be good for me. I haven�t felt at home since I moved out of Lizzie�s. 3. I should probably NOT go to Cuba with Patrick. As much as I relish the romantic idea of us on a journey together, the fact of the matter is that I cannot afford it. Even with him paying for airfare, the last thing in the world I want to be is stranded in Cuba with not enough money � and there are those pesky little realities such as rent and all that. It saddens me to no end that I won�t be able to experience this trip (since my travel experiences are limited and I can think of nothing I would rather do than be someplace sunny and foreign with Patrick for a week), but what can I say? Reality bites. 4. And Patrick, sweet Patrick, apple of my eye. I have to keep in mind that as wonderful as I think he is (and he is), he is just a person and there is no guarantee that I will always feel so crazy about him (and vice-versa). I am constantly wanting guarantees � something in writing that says � yes, you will be together forever � or no, he will leave you for a blonde bimbo he meets in some foreign land (oh perish the thought). But this is not how life works, and I just have to sit back, relax, and enjoy the ride. So � tomorrow I will journey home again (to my new home, to my own life, to whatever I have made of it � both good and bad). I can�t wait to be home again. I miss it terribly. I will have Patrick in the car next to me and we will listen to mix tapes and sing along while we eat gorp and tell each other stories. And I will feel normal again (like myself), and I will be falling in love again � with myself, and with Patrick, and with New York. 02:11:23 - 2000-09-04 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
||||||
|
||||||