I have been back for over a week now from my trip to Paris. One of the prices I pay for traveling is the level of headaches and fatigue I deal with on my return, boo hoo, right? But through the fog of jet lag and migraines is the awareness of my resistance to being home. Home is where the heart is, we say and write, wanting to believe it. But my heart sits in a damaged place so returning here just feels like returning. I am just back here after being there.
I realized on the return flight just how much denial I was living in. I was saying I was fine about a few subjects that when brought to light had the stink of rot all over them, fine my ass. As soon as I am on the ground my sense of responsibility lights up like a christmas tree and my resentment right alone with it. All of the sudden I am not in charge of my life, it is happening to me. I have to take care of them. I have to tend to them.
My son shows up and I can see that he is off, is he taking his medicine? My grandson is so needy I can hardly get a breath. He spends the first 3 days I get back with me and has to be tolerant of my jet lagged ass, preferring that to anything else going on. I knew something was up. I was only gone 2 weeks.
I made a sacrifice when I decided to come back here to live and help my son and more importantly my grandson. It is a sacrifice that must be like a promise and like promises I make I try to keep. I broke off with my family in order to put aside and finally the constant negativity that is how we relate to each other. So I deal with this unaided by family support. My life is hard enough dealing with a bipolar son who is constantly mad at the world to having to constantly explain how what I am doing is not enabling it is keeping a household together until my grandson can fend for himself. I think of how my life might have been different had anyone taken notice of my struggle.
Right now my son is mad and out there, and he did not come over as usual this morning, all the signs I need to know just how bad this next few days and weeks could get and my grandson is to start school soon. Fuck me, excuse my french.
While I was away in the fantasy world of Paris I began thinking again of relocating. I try so hard to imagine a land where more people spoke my language and understood my sensibility. I sometimes just want to live where I just like it better. I want to be somewhere I enjoy being. All the same bull shit sentences I heard my mother say. She was eternally dissatisfied with her now short life. I don’t want to be that. I made a promise to be here. Maybe all I want is some peace.
It takes so much out of me my only hope is getting on a plane and leaving for a while but it only can be for a while because I made a promise to call this home, for a while.