Holy crap, it’s been forever since my last post. And I’m typing this one knowing that I already don’t have much to say, but feel the need to say SOMETHING, lest I continue to swirl around in the gross, grey laundry water of my mind, thinking on repeat, “This would be good to write about. Naw. THIS would be good to write about. Naw.”
If you answered, “Holy crap, she’s stuck in an anti-blog negative mind bender trap thing,” you would be right. And you would have said “holy crap,” one of my favorite phrases. That’s double Master Points, and let’s not forget, we’re keeping track.
What’s happening, I believe, is this: I got pretty busy. My schedule switched from days to nights, leaving my mornings open to do all of the nonsense I would do at night, just in my pajamas. My boyfriend moved in with me, taking all that time I would to do nonsense alone, and giving us joint-nonsense-time custody, which is GREAT, and it makes me more sane, but also less weird. And finally, we didn’t have the Internet in my house for like, two weeks. So that hurt.
All of these things, of course, I pin up as excuses for not writing. The real issue being I know exactly what I want to write about, but don’t feel a way to do it justice that will convey to you, Loyal Reader, just how thoughtful and intriguing I am while simultaneously maintaining my sense of heart and self-deprecation. And here’s why:
All I want to write about and all I want to do is go home.
The idea has been the dichotomous wedge in my very core for so very long, and it is finally the one and only thing I want. And I’m not even playing you Edward Sharpe for this.
Walking through Boise’s north end last weekend, between the blossoming Dog Woods (blech!) and the adorable fairy tale houses, Jamie and I were talking about what comes next. “Honestly?” I said, “People ask me all the time about what I want to do after this, and what I want to do after this is go back to my parent’s house, sleep for two weeks and then wake up and figure it out.”
For the first time like EVER, I want to pack it in, give it up, pull the covers over my head and languish. I want to retreat to the secret sanctuary in my old backyard, where the grass still hasn’t grown over the spot where my step-dad’s garden was. Or has it? I want to run circles around the house with the ghost of my dog and collapse in the space between the fences where the grass is long and no one can see you if you wait long enough.
The worst answer to the whole question, “Why can’t I?” is the very simple, “Because now you CAN’T do that anymore,” Jamie said, the backdrop of Boise — a strange new city — illuminating something about the underlying context of our conversation.
The better answer is that I’m catching a plane home in June, which will be fine, I’m sure. It will be an excuse to be done with this temporary insecurity, at least.
The best answer is what it won’t be: The promise of a sense of belonging to something that makes sense to you. Like any good teenager, I may have hated living at home when I did, but I was so damn good at doing it. Growing up in the boundaries of the same little house and the same little town means that anything is possible out side of those boundaries. The boundless, maybe. It means, for a while, you can dance inside of those constraints figuring that anything else has got to be better. You grow like a vine, weaving through the wires of those fences, holding each other up. Pull the wires away and what happens? Me, a warm pile of goo, with nowhere to go but out and down.
The reality of anything being possible can be a terrifying one. The strength to rebuild enough boundaries on your own to keep believing that any of those things could one day be within reach takes more strength than I realized.
“The worst thing about living a lie is just wondering when they’ll find out.” — Merrill Garbus