I haven’t felt comfortable in Arizona in well over a decade.
Even when I lived here, I felt as if this place stifled me.
The constant reminders that it wasn’t where I belonged. That it wasn’t where I was wanted.
When I moved to San Diego a little over 5 years ago, it was honestly the best decision I had ever made for myself. I blossomed in San Diego. Away from the oppressive heat and even more oppressive bad memories; I became a better version of myself.
I healed.
And ever since, coming back here has felt like a punishment. Like a torture that must be endured for the greater good of my family, but one which I always wanted to get through as quickly as possible.
I feared that’s what this trip would become. Even without the menacing threat of my stepmother waiting in the wings, I worried that the painful memories of the past would make this the last place I should be while nurturing a broken heart. I was scared that I would be uncomfortable and wounded the entire trip, simply longing to return home to the safety of my own bed.
Only… that isn’t what happened.
In fact, that isn’t what happened at all.
And now, as it’s time for me to get on a plane and leave; I don’t want to.
I even contemplated extending my stay. Finding some way to duck out of work for a few more days and continuing to allow my dad to take care of me.
Because the truth is – I’m not ready to return to the real world. I’m not ready to face the big decisions and scary choices. I’m not ready to go back to my life.
But here? Here I have suddenly felt safe. Protected. Provided for. With no responsibilities and no car to take myself anywhere, I haven’t felt any pressure to be anything to anyone. And surrounded by those who love me, I’ve felt at least mildly insulated from the blow that fell last week.
I know that at home it won’t be the same. That home will mean returning to my job and not allowing my emotions to effect my work. It will mean doctor’s appointments and negotiations; trying to find solutions for this new bout of endo that will provide relief without making me feel like I’m losing pieces of myself.
Going home is going to mean facing reality again.
And I’m just not sure I’m ready for that.
But the truth is – I know I won’t be ready in three days either. Or three weeks. Or three months.
If I had my way, I would hide out here in my dad’s house for the rest of my life. I would allow him to make all the decisions for me and take care of me and expect nothing else of me in return.
Because suddenly; that sounds like the ideal life to live.
But I know that isn’t true. I know it isn’t me. I know that no matter how comforting it feels now, it would be giving up.
And I am not a quitter.
So, I am going to get on that plane.
And tomorrow I am going to go to work.
I am going to call my doctor and get in as soon as possible for an ultrasound and consultation about what to do next.
I am going to see about spending some time with Mr. Fix-It.
I am going to work on finding my smile again.
I am going to hang out with friends, and go to church.
I am going to buy my groceries and do my laundry and clean my house.
I am going to move forward, one step at a time. Even if it is at a snail’s pace.
All the while knowing that if it becomes more than I can handle, this room in my dad’s is still here for me.
This space where I belong. Where I am wanted. Where I am loved.
This one place in the world where I can hide. Where someone else will take care of me, until I’m ready to take care of myself.
They say you can’t go home again.
But this week – I learned that isn’t true.
This week I learned that whenever the real world gets to be too much;
Home is exactly where I need to be.
ADSPACE
