Having confessed to needing to change my narratives, I’ll also confess the reason I’m still all over the place, emotionally and mentally, about being home. I write this in my new room that I acknowledge as my (new) room yet not, in a house I grew up in – the only physical home I’ve known before home morphs itself into a concept – surrounded by family members who are out to love and kill each other depending on the weather and mood and flurry of activities of the day.
I write this in the midst of changes and stagnancy, in between becoming and being.
I think my problem is that because I have lived for the past six years on a constant and fixed timeline, mentally counting down to the start of a new quarter and then its end followed by the breaks and summers and springs and- you get what I mean. For the past six years, not only did I live only for myself, I rewired my mental and personal clock, dividing life into a series of time blocks which I freely filled with narratives.
What happens when chaos, void of structure, is now the new narratives?
I think herein lies my problem: even though I know and understand I’m home for good – in my head, this isn’t forever. For good for good for good – it just doesn’t fucking register. In my head, I’m packing up soon enough and out the door yet again. In my head, this isn’t settling. So while I’ve physically unpacked, I find it difficult, extremely challenging, to emotionally and mentally unpack. I sit in this room that will, if I end up working in the capital, be home for good. Yet I sit in this room feeling like I’m still on borrowed time seeking temporary solace like always. I’m here, but how would I know for how long?
Right now, time seems to move too fast yet it also feels like just another summer break. I’m home for three months to chill and have fun – then I’m out again. I begin again (and again and again) depending where I am. So much has taken place over the past two weeks yet nothing seems any different. What is this ridiculous paradox?
I’m trying to figure this out myself.
How long am I going to stand still like a fool while the world continues to move in motion all around me? How long am I going to deny myself the reality in which I live in, this home that is and will be home again? How long do I run away, physically and figuratively in my mind, recreating narratives over and over to ease myself?
How long do I stay a girl, in conflict and in denial with the expectations of being woman?
The world is unforgiving, it neither relents nor gives in just because I’m in pain.
I look at my three year-old niece, who I’ve been babysitting five days a week, and I catch her internal, unvoiced struggles in adapting to the fact she’s no longer the only child; now dethroned from her crown and having to share her castle. This new baby, her little brother, is out creating chaos in a world she’s dominated for a long time. She seeks out my sister, her mummy, in the most adorable and heartbreaking way; first in denial, then in quiet wanting – “I want to be a baby” – and now in dignified acceptance. At last, she plays along to the role of older sister, remembering his name and learning to love.
I look at her and I think, she’s got it right;
every little girl, at some point, has to grow up and become a big girl.
(and every big girl needs to grow up and become a bigger person)