Welcome to your new, old life.
Returning to a familiar place after so long is such a novelty, but not in the way I expected. Over the past several months I slowly started constructing this fantasy of what it would like to come home, to taste my favorite foods, to indulge in the comfort of being around my friends. On some days it was the light at the end of my tunnel that would keep me moving. It was fun to fantasize about it all. It protracted the homesickness perhaps, but it seemed to create a happy place that shielded me from anxiety. Nicole and I spent hours talking about Game of Thrones and Mexican food. My sister and I would talk about all the hikes and trips we're going to take together. "Add it to THE LIST," I'd say. And thus THE LIST continued to operate in the back of my mind. It wasn't inherently a bad thing, but it was problematic in one salient way: it was incomplete.
THE LIST only consisted of good things, distorting the way I think about any concept of home and everything it entails. THE LIST didn't include things like having asthma-ridden allergic responses to the horde of animals that looked at me with gross contempt upon my arrival. It didn't include a sudden change in climate and standing daylight, which has some effect on my mood. It didn't include the profound sense of listlessness that would afflict me for the next few weeks. It didn't include the endless questions over what I'm going to do next with my life.
It seems I didn't have the time or sagacity to acknowledge that I was enamored with a false hope. I could say that camp propelled me forward with such quickness that I couldn't stop to ponder what it would actually be like to come home. But I did have ten long days with my sister to talk about all of that stuff. It just never seemed to cross my mind. I was blissfully ignorant of what was coming.
Now, of course, there are many amazing things about being home. I got to hug my parents and little brother. I got to snuggle with animals (inducing the clusterfuck in my lungs), eat apple pie, and take part in the Christmas festivities. There were lots of things to see and do, but I wasn't prepared for the sneaking fatigue that was building up inside me all along.
I was dead tired, and overwhelmed. I lived out of a backpack for most of the year, and suddenly I return to a house where I have to deal with belongings again. I thought I had donated most of my clothes, but they seem to have multiplied in my absence. Just how many metal tee's does one actually need? My life suddenly feels cluttered again, but I don't know where to begin. This is going to take some work.
So I begin again. I may be flabbergasted with the multitude of paths before me, but I am excited to embark on a new year of good and bad things. Bring it on.
Returning to a familiar place after so long is such a novelty, but not in the way I expected. Over the past several months I slowly started constructing this fantasy of what it would like to come home, to taste my favorite foods, to indulge in the comfort of being around my friends. On some days it was the light at the end of my tunnel that would keep me moving. It was fun to fantasize about it all. It protracted the homesickness perhaps, but it seemed to create a happy place that shielded me from anxiety. Nicole and I spent hours talking about Game of Thrones and Mexican food. My sister and I would talk about all the hikes and trips we're going to take together. "Add it to THE LIST," I'd say. And thus THE LIST continued to operate in the back of my mind. It wasn't inherently a bad thing, but it was problematic in one salient way: it was incomplete.
THE LIST only consisted of good things, distorting the way I think about any concept of home and everything it entails. THE LIST didn't include things like having asthma-ridden allergic responses to the horde of animals that looked at me with gross contempt upon my arrival. It didn't include a sudden change in climate and standing daylight, which has some effect on my mood. It didn't include the profound sense of listlessness that would afflict me for the next few weeks. It didn't include the endless questions over what I'm going to do next with my life.
It seems I didn't have the time or sagacity to acknowledge that I was enamored with a false hope. I could say that camp propelled me forward with such quickness that I couldn't stop to ponder what it would actually be like to come home. But I did have ten long days with my sister to talk about all of that stuff. It just never seemed to cross my mind. I was blissfully ignorant of what was coming.
Now, of course, there are many amazing things about being home. I got to hug my parents and little brother. I got to snuggle with animals (inducing the clusterfuck in my lungs), eat apple pie, and take part in the Christmas festivities. There were lots of things to see and do, but I wasn't prepared for the sneaking fatigue that was building up inside me all along.
I was dead tired, and overwhelmed. I lived out of a backpack for most of the year, and suddenly I return to a house where I have to deal with belongings again. I thought I had donated most of my clothes, but they seem to have multiplied in my absence. Just how many metal tee's does one actually need? My life suddenly feels cluttered again, but I don't know where to begin. This is going to take some work.
So I begin again. I may be flabbergasted with the multitude of paths before me, but I am excited to embark on a new year of good and bad things. Bring it on.
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