It might seem natural for a person to be homesick, once in a while, for their childhood home. The thing is, I spent much of my early adulthood desperately trying to get away from that home. Perry, Ohio, and the house I shared with my mother and father, hold far more painful memories than they do happy ones. Yet, I feel a sudden, deep longing for my old bedroom, for the somewhat stressful but predictable routine of going to classes at the community college there, hell, even for the library and the mall I used to hang out in.
I also miss my field. My land. My tree. Here's a link to the story of Mother Birch.
Logically, I know that going back to my mother's house, even to stay for a little while, would only make me feel empty and sick. I made the best of what I had, then, but it wasn't good enough. I suspect that I idealise things in my past when my present feels stressful. Yes, I think that's it. I think the bedbug situation, combined with the violent neighbourhood I now live in, has made me feel unsafe in my own home, and that feeling has led to a desire to return to the familiar. I miss England, Seattle, Portland, even Cincinnati, but I didn't live in those places long. I think my brain is trying to get back to the most familiar and, ostensibly, "safe" place I know. This, combined with a desire to have warm feelings associated with a family home, is probably what is making me think a few days at my mother's house is a good idea... even though it really isn't.
"Safe" isn't synonymous with "happy." "Safe" does not mean "fulfilled," "loved," or even "content." "Safe" is absolutely necessary for those other things to happen. It is the foundation on which higher pursuits can be built. Yet, without some other catalyst, "safe" can lead to stagnation.
Maybe that's why it seems I thrive on change, sometimes. Don't get me wrong. I'm not saying that I handled the bedbug crisis and the forced move last year well at all -- I didn't. But as a concept, as a goal, I embrace change. Even when it's painful, I believe that it will all be worth it, somehow, even if I can't see it at the moment. Yeah, it's a big monster to fight, but it's also an opportunity to level up.
That's what my life has been. Level up, or die. Sound over-dramatic? As I told my therapist when she asked me if I believed in miracles, the miracle is that I am still here. That I have not given up. That I have persevered despite what I have endured. I'm not saying I'm ... no. I am saying I'm better than people who cowardly, selfishly take their own lives, or take other actions that hurt themselves and others around them. I have seen what suicide, self-harm, and refusal of treatment does to families. I didn't used to be better than that, but I am now. I leveled up. That's the miracle. It would have been easier to stop breathing. I didn't. So, go me.
But back to the topic at hand: "homesickness" brought about by feeling unsafe in my current environment. I am just so exhausted-- soul-tired of being uprooted and having my life turned upside-down by stuff I can't control. Yes, I know. This happens to everyone. I'm not special and it's not happening to me. I know that, in this case, it's "just bedbugs," and even my severe allergic reaction to them is easily treated. I know that our lease is up in November, and that we will be able to calmly and leisurely look for someplace that will suit us better.
Despite those things, I'm still upset, angry, and frustrated. I'm allowed to be, aren't I? I just need to remind myself that the solution is not going to come from clinging to an idealised, inaccurate conception of the past. Going back won't help me go forward. I have a home and a family of my own, now, even if the physical building Matt and I live in isn't ideal right now. My past pattern of crashing, burning, and going back to my mother's house to lick my wounds and not have any responsibilities is over. It's done. It's irrelevant. It's not conducive to progress. Nor is this a time to take a vacation, physically or mentally. I have to take care of myself, and Matt, as best I can.
But I crave comfort. Some people need comfort foods when they are stressed. I do that to some extent, but my comfort is sleep. My reaction to depression and anxiety is the same as my reaction to getting a cold: sleep it off. You'll feel better after a nice, two-day nap. This rarely works. I usually feel guilty about wasting time sleeping when I should have been doing something else, even if there really isn't anything I should or could have been doing. So I need to find some other way of comforting myself without shutting down, and I'm somewhat at a loss.
Guess I'll go have a smoke and think it over.
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