I leave in 24 days. 23 if you factor in that it's already past midnight as I write this. Midnight is when the ghosts of memories past come out to play, haunting my vision, filling my mind with fanciful tales of days when things were "better", when I was "whole", when life was "fulfilling". Dreams of England tease my very soul, as I recall how my house, once a home, has become so empty for me. No safe place. No haven. And I thought that I had found that.
Lesson learned. Never put your hope in a man. Now, I'm not some feminazi who thinks that all men are evil. God, no. But when you put your hope in man in general, in humankind, things are bound to end disastrously. Emotional turmoil and a life story that fast became a roller coaster from hell is perhaps the best way that I can describe the past few months. Don't get me wrong, I am SO excited to go to England. But before I go, I've got a lot of thinking to do. I thought that I had finally found a place to call home. But I was so, so wrong.
A few years ago, my therapist asked me to close my eyes and picture my safe place. I closed my eyes and saw the darkness and was overwhelmed with fear. I relayed that I couldn't find anything - not my house, not my college, nothing. She suggested that some people find solace and safety in picturing a beach with the waves lapping at the shore. I closed my eyes and called to mind an quiet coastline, littered with dead seaweed, picked my way through lifeless jellyfish, weaved through the abandoned bay, until I finally sat down in the cold sand, pulled my sweatshirt on, and wrapped my arms around my knees, trying to shield myself from the cutting winds. Death. So much death.
I've never felt at home since I returned from England. I can't put my finger on why I feel that way, but something clicked with me over there and I thrived. I sought simplicity. I craved companionship. I borrowed bravery and summoned a modicum of contentedness in solitude. I commanded the storms and felt the passion flow through me as I threw myself into academics and enjoyed the world. And now I can't even look at a simple text message without over-analysing, without wondering if anyone really cares. Without telling myself that I'm not worth it, turn back now, you'll never succeed.
Tears and Trazodone. Scotch and sadness. The beauty of the world fading, overshadowed by the uncertainty of the future. I don't want to see myself in five years. I don't want to picture myself in ten. What if I'm a disappointment? What if I never make it that far?
Sometimes I wonder what would happen if I left and never came back. What would happen if I disappeared entirely, if I ran away and never looked back. Would anyone notice? Would anyone care?
The darkness haunts me. I remember another time, quite vividly, when I was laying on the floor, body wracked with pain over and over and over again, as I saw myself die. But it was more than seeing; I felt the semi hit me full-force as I stepped in front of it as it barrelled down the highway; saw the ground coming closer and closer and felt the adrenaline mix with a sense of utter peace before the darkness consumed me; tasted the tart tang of salt in my blood as I cocked a gun and pulled the trigger; heard the panicked whispers of my parents in the room next door as I came back into the present with a mix of horrified cries and gut-wrenched sobs and manic laughter. That moment has never really left me. It has shaped me, it has overwhelmed me, it has torn me down and crushed me, but by god, it has let me grow. I can look back at that moment and whisper, "Never again."
I fear the future.
Plain and simple.
The future does not feel like my friend.
But maybe, just maybe, it doesn't need to be.
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