It's so cliche that you miss things more once they're gone
But it's so true. I miss Western. I miss the people and the lifestyle. I miss the independence. I miss the lack of friend drama. I miss mealtimes, when we all meet up at one big table and laugh and talk and enjoy each other's company. I miss the knock on our door at 10:30 at night, when Ephraim's decided that he's too tired to study and wants to come bug us. I miss climbing up into my bed at the end of the day and just collapsing into it with a sigh. I miss being around people with mature mindsets, who I can have real conversations with.
It's a weird thing, being home. I liked it at first. I was glad to be back. Glad to see old faces and settle into home life again. But I don't really have a home life, anymore. Ever since Mom and I moved out of our old house on Wilkinson Rd, the one we'd been in for at least two years, I've been restless. As nice as our house on Honeymoon Bay was, I hated it. Even though we were there for a year, that house never felt like home. And living here in Grandma's basement ... it's not home, either. I finally have my room set up how I want it, with the exception of a couple things I'd still like to hang on the walls (which I can do this weekend). But my room has no doors. I feel like a guest, in what's supposed to be my own house. But I still refer to it as "Grandma's house." It's not home. It's not my house. The old grey house we lived in, that's a quarter of a mile down the street ... that was home. That was my house.
And now, whenever I talk about Western and the dorms, I refer to them as "home," but have to catch myself, otherwise my friends and family won't be happy with me. Everyone says this is my home. And I used to believe that. I mean, I love the island. It's a beautiful place and there are so many wonderful people here. But it doesn't feel like home, anymore. I don't feel like I belong here. I'm not comfortable. And the truth is, I don't know if I want to belong here.
Maybe it's partially that I haven't done much since I've been back and haven't done anything productive; I'm not sure. But I've become increasingly unhappy since I've been home. And it's not about trivial stuff or crazy friend drama or whatever. It's that deep feeling in my stomach that something's not right. I go walking on Double Bluff beach, either by myself or with Josh, and it doesn't make me happy. Hanging out with old high school friends has lost some of its splendor. Every time I'm around people I used to know, I ache to get away. Because I don't belong here, and I know it. I feel it.
At Western, I was happy. Yeah, I know it might not have seemed like it, because I wrote quite a few depressing journal entries. But those were mostly about dating drama and stuff I was going through with guys. And that's all over and done with, now. And looking back, the past months have been some of the happiest I can remember. I felt so free. When I'm there, I feel like I can be who and what I want to be, and nobody will care. In fact, it will make them smile to see me happy.
I know that my family and friends on the island care about me. But there's something about my friends at Western. Our relationships may be newer than others, but they feel more mature. More real. More ... long-term. They're less superficial and more about the fact that, hey, we get along great. And not only that, but we lift each other up and inspire each other and give shoulders to lean on and someone to confide in when things are going rough.
And I know I have that with my other friends, but the thing is, at school, your friends are all you've got. They're your only support system. You all adapt until your interactions are like a well-oiled machine; maybe a little ding in the metal from time to time, but nothing that can't be polished. When all you have are two or three close buddies and you see them every day, several times a day, you develop a kind of friendship that allows for the constant closeness. You develop a style of living that works for you, and when you come "home," that gets disrupted. And the constant contact with friends is gone.
Suddenly, you're thrust back into a family whose lifestyle has changed to fit a life without you, while you've been gone. And while everyone's glad that you're back, and while you're happy to see the people you love, you hate it. Because it doesn't feel right. And while you still care about those people, you'd rather be away from them, because you've grown used to a life without them. And you find it difficult to accept the fact that they were able to adapt so easily to a life that only accommodates the idea of you. Resentment takes hold, and you find yourself wanting even more to get away from these people who can so easily cut you out of their everyday lives.
And so it comes full circle. The home that already didn't feel like a home, now feels even more uncomfortable. You're only a visitor, there. I'm only a visitor, here. The idea of simply packing up and going somewhere else, for a while, sounds appealing, though impossible. I guess the task at hand is to accept the fact that this simply isn't home, no matter how much you try to convince yourself that it is. And no matter how much others try to convince you that it is. Home isn't here. Home isn't in the basement of my grandma's house, where my room has no doors and my grandma talks to me like I'm five years old. Home is somewhere else. I don't know where it will be in the future, but for now, my home is Western.
And I really wanna go home.
It's a weird thing, being home. I liked it at first. I was glad to be back. Glad to see old faces and settle into home life again. But I don't really have a home life, anymore. Ever since Mom and I moved out of our old house on Wilkinson Rd, the one we'd been in for at least two years, I've been restless. As nice as our house on Honeymoon Bay was, I hated it. Even though we were there for a year, that house never felt like home. And living here in Grandma's basement ... it's not home, either. I finally have my room set up how I want it, with the exception of a couple things I'd still like to hang on the walls (which I can do this weekend). But my room has no doors. I feel like a guest, in what's supposed to be my own house. But I still refer to it as "Grandma's house." It's not home. It's not my house. The old grey house we lived in, that's a quarter of a mile down the street ... that was home. That was my house.
And now, whenever I talk about Western and the dorms, I refer to them as "home," but have to catch myself, otherwise my friends and family won't be happy with me. Everyone says this is my home. And I used to believe that. I mean, I love the island. It's a beautiful place and there are so many wonderful people here. But it doesn't feel like home, anymore. I don't feel like I belong here. I'm not comfortable. And the truth is, I don't know if I want to belong here.
Maybe it's partially that I haven't done much since I've been back and haven't done anything productive; I'm not sure. But I've become increasingly unhappy since I've been home. And it's not about trivial stuff or crazy friend drama or whatever. It's that deep feeling in my stomach that something's not right. I go walking on Double Bluff beach, either by myself or with Josh, and it doesn't make me happy. Hanging out with old high school friends has lost some of its splendor. Every time I'm around people I used to know, I ache to get away. Because I don't belong here, and I know it. I feel it.
At Western, I was happy. Yeah, I know it might not have seemed like it, because I wrote quite a few depressing journal entries. But those were mostly about dating drama and stuff I was going through with guys. And that's all over and done with, now. And looking back, the past months have been some of the happiest I can remember. I felt so free. When I'm there, I feel like I can be who and what I want to be, and nobody will care. In fact, it will make them smile to see me happy.
I know that my family and friends on the island care about me. But there's something about my friends at Western. Our relationships may be newer than others, but they feel more mature. More real. More ... long-term. They're less superficial and more about the fact that, hey, we get along great. And not only that, but we lift each other up and inspire each other and give shoulders to lean on and someone to confide in when things are going rough.
And I know I have that with my other friends, but the thing is, at school, your friends are all you've got. They're your only support system. You all adapt until your interactions are like a well-oiled machine; maybe a little ding in the metal from time to time, but nothing that can't be polished. When all you have are two or three close buddies and you see them every day, several times a day, you develop a kind of friendship that allows for the constant closeness. You develop a style of living that works for you, and when you come "home," that gets disrupted. And the constant contact with friends is gone.
Suddenly, you're thrust back into a family whose lifestyle has changed to fit a life without you, while you've been gone. And while everyone's glad that you're back, and while you're happy to see the people you love, you hate it. Because it doesn't feel right. And while you still care about those people, you'd rather be away from them, because you've grown used to a life without them. And you find it difficult to accept the fact that they were able to adapt so easily to a life that only accommodates the idea of you. Resentment takes hold, and you find yourself wanting even more to get away from these people who can so easily cut you out of their everyday lives.
And so it comes full circle. The home that already didn't feel like a home, now feels even more uncomfortable. You're only a visitor, there. I'm only a visitor, here. The idea of simply packing up and going somewhere else, for a while, sounds appealing, though impossible. I guess the task at hand is to accept the fact that this simply isn't home, no matter how much you try to convince yourself that it is. And no matter how much others try to convince you that it is. Home isn't here. Home isn't in the basement of my grandma's house, where my room has no doors and my grandma talks to me like I'm five years old. Home is somewhere else. I don't know where it will be in the future, but for now, my home is Western.
And I really wanna go home.