Old memories have been drifting into my conscious orbit lately. At other points in my life they may have felt intrusive, but now I welcome them. I mourn them. And then I lay them down. It feels like taming ghosts. It feels good.
Today was an exhausting day with lots of internal struggles, loads of farm stuff, and work on a research project. It was dark and misty when I finally pulled into the driveway. The headlights diffusely lit up the back of our Su*baru, the garden, the flats of plants on the deck. P was inside making tacos. And I started to cry as I realized I’m home. I’m finally home.
And then a memory came back. It’s night, I’m in bed, and it’s so dark I’m not sure which house I’m in or how old I am. But I’m crying, struggling to breathe, feeling crushed and desperately lonely. “I just want to go home.” Those words run through my mind over and over. Curiously, I am at home, but it doesn’t feel like a home. I want a place that feels like home should feel. I want a place where I am loved, cared for, safe. I don’t have it, and I doubt I ever will.
But tonight I came home to my real home. I’m loved, cared for, safe. I have someone to love. I have a cat to cuddle with. Lights on in the house aren’t a source of dread, they’re a source of comfort. Words spoken here are not critical. Safe hugs are freely given and received. No one is trying to hurt me. I don’t know what that, in particular, is so hard to accept. No one is trying to hurt me. It’s challenging to let down a guard that’s been up for nearly three decades, but it’s time. It’s okay. I’m home.