My mind is all over the place lately.
I’m leaving London (another way to put it: I’m going home) in just over a month’s time and there is just so much I have to do and process. I realise that processing things normally comes after doing things, but I have always been horrible at living in the moment and hence have been trying to analyse and dissect things as they happen. It’s a horrible habit and I’m aware that it’s happening right before my eyes, and yet I can’t seem to do anything to stop it.
I want to go home but I am terrified of home at the same time. Home means a lot of conflicting things to me. It’s comfort, sure; comfort in the form of places and faces that I know and love. It is also, sadly, a lot of walls and boundaries and backward ways of thinking that I outgrew years ago but have had to live with/through anyway, begrudgingly. How, after being away for a year, can I come home to that and not expect to find conflict.
It makes no sense to me that the place I can least be myself is home and yet it is the only place I want to be and have ever wanted to be.
What if I’m still not strong enough to upset the people who need to be upset. What if I drown. What if I lose myself again.