i waited in the darkness for light

Somewhere, I lost a month. June was a monster.

I got back to Portland and was nearly crippled with homesickness. It took me a few weeks to even start to feel somewhat “normal” again. I know my family doesn’t want me to be homesick, at least not to the point of near-incapacitation, but I actually would prefer that feeling never goes away. I don’t want to grow away from where I belong. I want to always feel that pull to be there.

My father’s father died almost immediately after I left home again, which made things worse. All I could think about was how badly I wanted to be there, to do whatever I could to help him through such a difficult thing, and to help my mother with whatever support she needed through it. Instead I was stuck thousands of miles away. They got through it, of course, just fine without me. My parents are brave, strong, resilient people, and inspire me every day.

Then I had finals. Papers and more papers to write. I don’t really even remember much of that week except that I didn’t sleep much. I was at the library most of every day. I was relieved when it was over.

My other grandfather had to have a surgery regarding a bout with cancer, and is recovering well. I was still a nervous wreck that day, and for a while after. I don’t even want to talk about it, really. I just wanted to acknowledge that it happened.

I started my second job at the newspaper. Long, long hours of staring at the same pages over and over again: proofreading and making changes before sending them to the production team, then proofing again for errors inserted in the production process. At the end of the day, I’ve all but memorized every story. It’s still interesting, and I’m damn good at it, so I’m happy with it.

Other than that, I’ve been writing (fiction) quite a lot. I started a side project, sort of as a joke idea, and it somehow spiraled out of control. I’m now sitting at almost 40,000 words written. To give an idea — NaNoWriMo suggests 50,000 words as a minimum completed novel. I don’t know if this will end up being something I seek any kind of publication for, or if it will simply remain something I did for my own private enjoyment. At this point, it’s not something I would share with my family or friends, but maybe eventually.

It’s late, and I’m tired… I’ve been putting in 15 hour days this week to get everything done. It’s stressful but rewarding. But for now, I’m just going to crawl into bed.

(listening to: Casey Stratton, “Still Life”)

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look for me another day, i feel that i could change

I guess even writing daily isn’t really do-able, mostly because I feel like writing the same thing every day would be boring both for me and the reader, even the ones who love me and are bound to me by blood. Today, I ate food. I read a book for school. I slept. Today I was boring.

I had a migraine the last couple of days, the first one since I have been entirely on my own. I’ve had a few bad ones since I moved here, but there was always some way I could either take care of it or visit the emergency room to get it taken care of. I avoid the latter as much as possible, but these ones that go on for days with no end in sight are just ridiculous, and it seems a few doses of dilaudid and some nausea medicine is the only thing to reboot my system. This time, though, I had no idea where a hospital was or how to get to it, so I bunkered down in my room with a bag of ice on my face.

I still haven’t finished unpacking yet. I think part of me is hesitant to do so. It’s the same as how I am keeping a pile of boxes in the garage, because “I’ll need them to move home.” Yeah. Um, I can probably find new boxes a year from now. But if I get rid of them, I am actually stuck here. Maybe part of me thinks that if I live in a permanent disaster area (ie, my room), I won’t get too comfortable. I need to get over it, though, because living in a disaster area is making me very disheveled and disorganized in my day-to-day living.

The other day, I was going through an old backpack that I used to transport odds and ends during the move. I found photos from when I was in high school. A number of them were of me with assorted friends from high school — the people that are your friends because you are herded like cattle into the same corral day after day — but I found some that were from other more meaningful occasions. A photo of my brother and his wife on their wedding day, a photo of my father and I at the wedding rehearsal dinner, a photo of my grandparents dancing together at a wedding reception, photos from when I was a bridesmaid for someone I considered a very dear and beloved friend for many years. I found an assortment of photos of my nieces from their earlier years. I put them all up around my desk area so that everytime my eyes stray, I am surrounded by faces I love. The photos I have up of my nieces and nephews bring me a particular joy I can’t describe. Their little faces are so expressive, full of happiness and mischief, and my heart swells just thinking of them. If this is how it feels to be an aunt, I’m not sure my heart could handle being a parent. Sometimes I joke, though, that I shouldn’t have kids because I wouldn’t love my own as much as I love my nieces and nephews. I apologize to any unborn children that may or may not ever exist.

My Dad said something the other day that has had me thinking. It’s always been something at the forefront of my thoughts, in part because it’s always been the centre of my world. I am very homesick because I miss my family. If I go back and look at my journals (my need to document is a blessing and a curse) from the last several years, though, there is a lot of heartache and unhappiness to account for. That isn’t to say I blame my family, because I really don’t. What I mean is that… I spent a long time living at “rock bottom,” and there were often more overwhelmingly bad times than good. I can see why some people might be confused as to how I could be so homesick when moving here marked the end of a rather painful era for me. It’s simple, though. I was raised in a loving, and intensely emotional family, for better or for worse. I grew up with a sense that I am part of a larger unit. Now that I am away from the unit, I feel disjointed and out of place. I described it to my ex, as we were in the midst of breaking up (in part because he couldn’t understand this very topic), as being something like losing a limb. I spent the better part of my first months living here trying to tourniquet the wound. And it’s an exaggeration, surely, but it does feel that way to me at times. You hear a lot about the “phantom limb” phenomenon, and I feel similarly. I hear about my family’s lives going on back home, and the sensation of the limb is still there, even though it is not physically present. I am lucky that there is an abundance of ways to communicate with my loved ones, although it’s never quite the same as being there.

I’ve been told by numerous people (all of whom love me and perhaps say it for that reason alone) that this is a shining opportunity for me to reinvent myself and take the world by storm. I am slowly starting to believe it. I don’t feel like I need to be reinvented, necessarily, because I’m quite fond of some parts. There are other parts, though, that I will be glad to say farewell to forever, if I can. I’m not one to believe that a change of scenery automatically means everything will be different, but it helps. Sometimes, in my head, I liken the time I am spending now to an artisan crafting something in a workshop. I have the raw materials and I am welding and soldering and knitting and hammering away, trying to turn it into a masterpiece.

I’m still wishing the weather would get better. We had snow over the weekend, and that was upsetting. I’ve gotten spoiled since I moved here. I still mock the natives who complain about it being cold in the 40s, but if I’m being honest with myself, I should admit that it’s all too easy to slip into the habit of preferring the warmer weather. I want to spend more time outside, but not getting soaked or buried under snow. C’mon, spring!

(listening to: The Innocence Mission, “The Lakes of Canada”)

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say all that i’m feeling won’t come undone

Today is a day off, so I stayed up way too late doing absolutely nothing worthwhile.

I have to call my brother to wish him a happy birthday. And I need to call my Gramma and thank her for the Valentine’s Day card… I got it a bit late thanks to moving, but I did get it. I’m nervous about these phone calls because, first of all, I hate talking on the phone and always get a lot of anxiety about it, no matter who I’m calling. Also, I feel so outside of my family now that I’m far away and outside of the loop. Everything I know is by word of mouth, pictures forwarded. There are no firsthand experiences. I miss those.

Still desperately homesick. I fill my time with busy-work, even meaningless drivel, just to keep my mind off of it. The hardest part is at night, trying to fall asleep. I still feel the spot at my feet where my dog is supposed to be sleeping. I still wake up to noises thinking it’s my family, when really it’s just my noisy, stoner roommates.

I have to keep reminding myself: I made this choice. There’s no undoing it. There is only forward to go from here. There is no safety net this time. There are no excuses if I unravel.

I know I am strong enough, or part of me is. Somewhere inside me, it’s there. Finding it is proving a little more difficult.

I’ll get the hang of it eventually. I hope.

(listening to: Sleepthief, “Just Say It”)

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