When I am home, it’s like my life is not mine. It’s like I cease to exist as an individual of my own, one with my own life’s directions, decision-makings and emotions.
I’m constantly governed by others or holding it in, exasperatedly, as I play the good daughter role because what else am I, if not this? How else can I be or play a different role if I know of all the grievances the others have caused or brought forth?
When I am home, my past life in Philly and future in Stanford seem insignificant; the former feels like it has never taken place and the latter feels unreal. Currently, my phone has remnants of Philly and my travels – the different time zones, the weather apps of the different cities I were at, the photos I’d gleefully taken of things I liked and that carefree feeling of being in the moment.
When I am home, I don’t know how to be in the moment. Remembering these things, events and experiences scare the sh*t out of me because everything feels like a dream. Compared to the realities I face here, the elephants in the room, the truths which are spilled whether I’m unwilling or not to listen to… I understand the trade offs but as always – understanding does not always mean accepting and accepting does not always equal personal contentment, otherwise known as happiness.
There, I said it.