It’s easier to forget that I have another life on the other side of the ocean than to admit I’ve been neglecting that life. I’ve spoken more french over the last year than I have spoken to my mom at all. It’s only now, with a week of classes left to my entire university experience that I’m being forced to see how much damage I’ve done to my home life.
It’s easier to grow away from the expectations placed on me based on my history. I called myself independent and mature for proving I didn’t need home but it was never a question. Neither was it a question that home needed me; it didn’t. In this world my footprint goes unnoticed. Hard as I may try, I cannot create a dent in the universe.
It’s easier to go back home pretending I’ve grown into someone they won’t recognize. I’ve rebooted my life before, why not again? No one from home knows who I am anymore. I could be anyone. But the truth is, I haven’t changed. I’m still the same girl who waited in the airport for eight hours before accepting I was on my own now and always would be.
It’s easier to fall into place in a city no one’s heard of in a country no one cares about. To follow the crowd, not try to break out or make my own way. They say my home is a good place to live, the people are nice, the economy is high. When I’m there I believe them. The mountains and forests and badlands and flatlands will have that effect if you look for too long.
It’s easier to pretend I don’t mind the fact there are things I won’t know about until I return. Another cousin engaged, another baby born, my best friend since sixth grade has a girlfriend now, my dad’s basement is being rented out by some guy who happens to be a lot more involved in my little brother’s life than me. But my dog still pees on the carpet.
It’s easier to stay silent about all these mixed feelings. The anger at myself for letting things get so bad. The frustration at the world for placing an ocean in that exact spot. The apprehensiveness at what my future holds. The sadness over having to leave for good. The happiness for having been. The anxiety over past wrongs. The hope for what is to come.
It’s easier to write than to speak. To guide a pen across a page is incomparable to the uncertainty of which way the tears will go if I blink. To type out words will not hurt like speaking past the lump at the bottom of my throat. This has always been true, save perhaps for today when I would rather shout to home than write this stupid essay.
It’s easier to delete this piece than to show it to the world. If I did I could avoid all the concerned questions—and there will be questions. I am okay, I’m fine, believe me. I wasn’t, but now I am. That’s what writing does for me. That’s why these three years have been worth it. That’s why I wouldn’t change a thing, except for attempting to forget home.
Precarious Writer 