Despite this week being good (some days were better than “good”), for reasons I cannot put my finger on, I am glad it is over.
Maybe it was the household being down with the near-flu or that someone I love fell flat on their face (literally, on their face) not judging a curb accurately. Maybe it is that part of me has been quietly, subconsciously, reviewing the year; worming around, trying to make sense of how things unfolded – good, not great or indifferent. I feel stalled. At least right now, I do.
This morning I counted aloud, on my fingers, ‘August. September, October, November, Decem… .’ Four. Four months here. And I really should stop berating myself for wondering when here is going to feel ‘normal’ – and embrace fully this is not just another visit. Or, perhaps, I could chastize myself less because I’ve not found or replaced all the niches I cozied into up there; the volunteering and community stuff will evolve. With a bit of effort, I could find a church, or a script, or a thing that fed me where I most feel lost: in my core; I am out of touch with the magnetic north that points toward the home in my self. There I was a friend, a daughter, a reliable, a daily mom, a far away girlfriend, a dependable worker bee.
Here? I have no flipping clue, frankly. On some days, it feels like I’m wearing someone else’s shoes in someone else’s story.
I miss the parenting most of all; supporting her activities and enjoyments; feeding the friendpack when they descended upon the house; nodding ‘yes’ to her hope-eyed plea to have the girls sleep over – and could I please make crepes with Nutella for breakfast? And bacon? And tea?
Yes, yes, yes.
I was not prepared for anything this year. I am not prepared to live in this new place – though I packed up my life, left my job, dear friends, parents – and moved anyway.
“Make yourself at home!” They say.
I promise I am trying. But tonight, for whatever reason, I am questioning and second-guessing quite a lot.
So long, week. You’ve wrung me out.