Coming Home?

It's weird coming back to the mainland. Back to this space. A familiar place. Whenever I cross the water it feels as though I am coming home. Returning to my old life.

Here are my loved ones. My friends. Always someone with open arms and open doors. There is laughter and memories, a bed and food. Someone to say they miss me.

I never long for the city, it's too fast and mean for me. But I dream of never having to excuse myself, explain my words, or be reasonable. Everything is as it is. And I miss just being who I am in the presence of great people, the ones I love.

And still I miss my boys and the island, the home in the bay and my bed.

Is it possible to have two homes? Or more?

The Tears Cometh - Part 2

It's a tough thing saying goodbye. To friends. To memories. To the person you once were. And to a home.

Once upon a time, I was lost. There are blogs to prove how far astray I deviated from the girl I was supposed to be. Those posts will show an emotional battle worthy of the history books. Still, I worked through my issues here - most of them. Some of my issues aren't meant to be worked through. Really, they're character flaws and part of who I am as a person. Still, this is where I battled my demons publicly. Not because I think anyone wants to read about the skeletons dancing out of my closet when I accidentally leave it open, but because it is therapeutic for me to write out the troubles that plague my mind. Catalogue. File. Close the drawer.

The funny part about the things I wrote through 2012 and 2013 is that are were written in my big girl home. The home I moved into thinking I would never date anyone again. The place I bought when I was scared and sad and the most broken I've ever been. It's the place I hunkered down and confronted my part in the demise of one of the most important relationships I've ever had, or ever will have. Even more, it's the home I lose forty-seven pounds in. It's where I stopped wading through the darkness and found the light. And I fell into my stride again.

Many nights were passed writing and dreaming and laughing - and maybe even crying in this place.

So, as I stood in my living room today, staring at the emptiness, I too felt empty. The tears came. Uncontrolled and perhaps even a bit irrational. But they are important. They are a goodbye. A goodbye to what was said and done there. To the chapter I never thought I'd have to start. The part of the book that hurt at first, but turned into such a pivotal section of my life. Honestly, I doubted it would ever end. In the beginning, I thought I would be there forever. But forever is a lengthy amount of time. And it did end. It's over. And the new chapter has started.

And as I took one last pee on the toilet I once owned, I let go. I didn't have to be strong or pretend.I don't have to smile. Today, I can be sad. It's okay. Because this was my home. It is important. And it can be hard saying goodbye.

As I finally breathe out, I realize I have beautiful people in my life. Friends who are generous and caring. Family who love me, no matter how weird my decisions seem. Beautiful boys to keep me warm at night. And the memories I created in my big girl home.

Subjects Removed

It's been a long year so far, and we are only halfway through. As some of you know, I put my condo up for sale back in February. I thought it would sell quickly. It didn't. After much waiting and fretting, it is now sold.

While I thought the weight of stress would finally lift off me, leaving me with nothing but an overwhelming feeling of freedom, I'm actually suffering from a unique sort of melancholy. Yes, this is what I wanted, to be rid of the burden, financially more than anything else. And yes, this does represent being able to move forward. For the last year, I've felt stuck in a sort of limbo with very little to indicate I am actually moving in the right direction.

Still, there's this sadness. A grief. For a loss I am responsible for.

Don't get me wrong. This is a happy occasion, but I am still saying goodbye. To a place I bought at a very difficult time of my life. A home where I did a significant amount of growing and an equal amount of healing. In saying goodbye to this place, I am letting go. Letting go of myself, of parts of my past, of people and moments and love and losses I never thought I'd let go of.

Sure, I moved out awhile ago, but as long as I owned this apartment, I had an umbilical cord to the girl I once was. The sad one, who was so lost and broken she never thought she'd find her way. The heartbroken one. And the one who learned much and stopped feeling bad and started breathing in the trees and ocean, breathing out the doubts and anger. As long as I owned that apartment, I had an attachment to my friends, the people I love and miss. By selling it, I am acknowledging how much I miss those people. How detached I sometimes feel over here.

And I am saying goodbye to my ex. This sounds bonkers, doesn't it? I mean, we haven't been together for three years and have both been with other people for quite some time, two years and counting on my side of things. Still, this is where I went after us and it's where we worked diligently to form a friendship. That friendship still stands, I like to believe it always will, and I consider myself lucky to have it. It takes unique individuals to salvage a friendship from the wreckage of love, but it can happen, if you aren't both complete dicks.

It's weird. How a building, a five hundred square foot apartment, can represent so much of who you are and what you've been through. I understand those memories will be with me forever, but I didn't except this overload of emotion. Honestly, I thought there would be dancing and merriment. Don't think this is a regretful thing. It really isn't. That is not one of the hundred emotions storming through me.

And I am happy, but also sad too.

Funny how things are never quite what you imagine them to be. But at least this is a little forward movement. I think.

Take Me Home

One of my most lovely friends posted an interesting blog about home. How he longs for home, even when he is in the house he is living. In all my wisdom, I replied with my own thoughts on home. How it's more a feeling than a place. They, whoever 'they' are, have two different sayings.

Home is where you hang your hat.

This isn't the case. We can have an apartment, house, or basement suite and still not feel at home in our space. Because our hearts long for something more. If you are alone in your dwelling, or if there are toxic vibes or ill will from those you live with, well that space can be very un-home-like.

Home is where your heart is.

This is more apt, I think. I remember growing up and well into my twenties, my home was where my parents were. In the beginning, it was because that's all I knew. When I got older, it was because they offered me a space where I could simply be and not be judged or have anyone expect anything from me. I loved them. They loved me. Being in their presence was my home because they gave me peace and safety and a comfort zone. Nothing was ever going to happen to me while I was with my parents.

You can find this peace, safety and comfort in the presence of other people. Like your Sidekick. Or, for instance, friends and family. My sister is most definitely home for me. When I'm with my sister, there is this overwhelming home feeling. There are other people too, like my ex-boyfriend, which seems kind of weird. Still, when I am around him, in his space, at his house, in his truck, I am comfortable and at peace and loved. So I am home. Friends like Rebs and Bots and Leppy all extended themselves to me for such a long time that I will never be uncomfortable around them. They have offered me their homes and made it my own.

So, I truly feel home is where your heart is.

Even more, though. Home is where you are. I think you carry your home within you. I am at home in the woods and at the beach. I am at home in my truck driving down island. I am at home in my bed with my boys. I am at home wherever I am.

Maybe that's because I love myself. Accept myself. Enjoy my time alone. Because my heart is inside me and it doesn't want to be anywhere else.

Regardless, home isn't a structure in my opinion. It isn't made of wood or brick. The amount of rooms or type of flooring do not matter. Sure, you can build a house and raise a family in it, you can fill it full of the most wonderful memories and that house can feel like a home. But those memories will still exist if the house doesn't. Don't get me wrong. I want that sort of home too. A safe haven where everyone I love can come when they are broken and I will heal them with baked goods and magical forest walks.

But isn't that wherever I am. Wherever I go. Which is why I say home is a feeling. You should be carrying it inside you every day. Whatever place you live in. There is this world. Our world. And everyone you love lives here, or has lived here. Isn't that comforting? Space and time are inconsequential when love is involved.
You are home because you are here. Because you exist and the word is yours. As it is mine.

Home

It's nice to have a place to come back to after a long journey. Or not so long journey.

Comfortable bed. Delightful teas. The sound of hounds snoring and the hum of the dryer. Familiar smells of laundry soap and dog feet. My favourite mugs. And my own pillow. The same old heart-stuttering kisses. Routine. Face soap and toothpaste. Laughter. Unpredictable predictability. Life as it should be. Where everything is as I left it. In and out of place. Different and the same.

Mine.

A place where I am only me and can exist as such.

Home.

I am thankful I have one.

There is nothing better than that first sleep back after time away.

Feeling Like A Joke

I've been meaning to do this sooner, but the intersnacks have been dodgy.

The interesting thing about blogging for me is that it works as a diary, helping me sort through the mountains of ridiculous crap floating around in my head. When I don't have the option, things sort of pile up and, no matter how much I stew over it, I can't just let things go. There's this weird part of writing things down that helps me release them. Sure, I could simply sit down with a pen and paper and get to scribbling, but...

No, wait. That's exactly what I did. And to be honest, it really didn't work. You see, I've been having a terrible time sleeping, which is most likely related to the state of mind I've worked myself into. Last night, for some inexplicable reason, I thought it a good idea to scrawl down the free fall of thoughts in my head. Of course, it was three in the morning and they didn't exactly come out orderly and pretty.

Actually, they came out like some haphazard list of possible blog topics, most of which I've already touched on in previous posts and others I'm not sure if I'm strong (or stubborn) enough to write about. The most common theme throughout them is feeling lonely, and health of body and mind. To me, if you have a healthy mind, your body will follow suit, mostly because you'll be motivated to get up and out and actually do something. It's been raining here, and getting up has been a chore.

Anyway, one of the points I jotted down, the first one, has been stuck in my craw for days. It's the source of a lot of heartache. And so, I'm writing about it. Here. In hopes of being able to let it go after. The thing is, I tried confronting it before, but it doesn't seem to matter how much I deep breathe or stretch my mind and body, it's there, needling away at me. I even tried talking about it, but what good is that when you feel stupid for even bringing it up.

Here's a shocking point, it's hard for me to talk about things. Surprise. It's easy to assume I'm a great talker, because I blog and vlog, but that's simply not the case. There are only two people who I feel comfortable telling anything to. I fear anyone else will take it the wrong way, maybe personally, and then offer up advice that won't help. The thing everyone needs to learn is - advice usually isn't what the person talking wants...or needs.

Back to the point, and the issue that's helped derail me from the path I was quite content to be travelling on. I'm a joke. Maybe not to you, or anyone else, but to myself, which is the person who counts the most. Today, and for the last little while, I feel like everything I do or say is a joke. And not when I'm actually being funny, but the serious stuff. My writing. The relationships I have. What I do for others. My love for knitting. Respect for animals. Everything just feels like one big joke and I'm the punchline. And not a very good one. The kind people chuckle at uncomfortably.

It doesn't seem to matter how much effort I put out or time or love or dedication, I feel pathetic. As though I am a sad little attempt at living. Where nothing I do or say matters enough to be taken note of. It's as though I'm simply playing a role, and not doing a very good job.

To be completely up front with you, it's a craptastic way to feel. And, in the battle between common sense and unreasonable feelings, rational thinking never wins.

I've tried putting a mask on and saying, I'm fine and going about my day, but the hitch is, I'm analyzing every piece of my life and losing grasp of what it is I cherished. The longer I harbour this passenger, the more I become the fool, and the feelings of displacement grow stronger. Other not-so-awesome thoughts pop into my head at unfair times. Like feeling invisible. Unwanted. A piece of furniture that always gets in the way, takes up too much room and isn't very pretty to look at. Then, the loneliness seeps in. A silent messenger who comes in the middle of the night when I'm laying next to someone.

Then I start wondering, why I'm not getting what I want?

I know it isn't fair, to want someone else to make me feel better. To distract me. To help me through the tangled knots of my mind. To reassure me that I'm not so bad. To love me even when it's hard to love myself. To forgive my bad mood. To understand where I'm coming from. To see me for who I am, not who I want to be or think I am. To demand attention. To want to be held, kissed and hugged, simply because I'm not happy with the reflection in the mirror.

It isn't fair of me to project my own demons onto someone else.  

The hardest part is, I've been here before, and  it's frustrating because I don't know how I got here again. This girl isn't me. I'm not supposed to be resentful or bitter. This uncertainty doesn't look good on me. I thought I managed to free myself of the constraints of my past, but it's there, sneaking up when it finds a chink in my armour and delivering blow after blow. Apparently, this baggage isn't going anywhere.

I'm a child again. A sad, dysfunctional child wanting the approval and affection of the people I love. Who feels disappointed in herself for letting others down. For letting herself down. The little, ugly, chubby, messy girl with the ratty hair and ill-fitting jeans. She is at the centre of who I am. And the little bitch is strong, and demanding.

I guess this has been going on since Christmas. Ever since, I've felt as thought things have changed. Inside me and all around me. And there's truth in change. We stop doing things for reasons. I'm trying hard to work through those, but the glue and staples don't seem to be holding.

Usually, I pull away. Distance myself. Put up walls. Hide out until the storm passes, or at least ravages and ruins everything in its wake. It seems as though no matter how hard I try not to, I revert back to the girl who doesn't want to get hurt and only ends up hurting myself. The thing is, I'm trying, to talk, to explain, to have some sort of connection that feels real, but I doubt whether it's working. Maybe I'm looking for feed back. A nod. Blink of an eye. Or perhaps just a simple clearing of the throat.

Everything I've wrote on this blog in the past is truth. I know that in my heart, even if it is stubborn and angry right now. Love is the way. You have to be beautiful inside to be beautiful out. Happiness comes from within. It's the little things in life. But the funny thing is, no matter how much you know to be true, all it takes is a shift in weather to fog up your glasses and change the way you see the world.

I'm hoping for another change in weather soon, so I can go back to seeing myself and the world for what it truly is.

And now, a quote:

Perhaps I shouldn't have posted this. That's it, I'm writing about cake tomorrow.