It’s been a long time in the making, but, I’ve finally become at home, at home.
While I was drinking, the thought of being alone at home really bothered me. I couldn’t do it. I’d get home from work, drop off my bag, throw on a pair of comfortable jeans and b-line for the bar. The loneliness of my apartment, even with my little kitty, was so uncomfortable and frankly, intolerable.
When I was by myself, drinking or not, I couldn’t escape my own thoughts and emotions. Memories of times past, all the obligations I had, my relentless self-criticism, they wouldn’t let me be for even a minute. I was constantly hoping to flee from myself. And, it seemed perfectly normal that going to the pub should be a logical solution.
I remember when they called last call at 2:30AM, my heart would sink. Even if I was only going home to crash into bed or onto my couch and pass out, the thought of being there made me want to rip out my own hair.
Today, with Portland in the midst of a heat wave, all I want to do is lay in front of the fan. And so, I did. And, as I contemplated my sober existence, all the changes that are abound, the new life I’m suddenly living, I realized that I was happy to be here in my home. The cool breeze of the fan. My cat comatose, stretched across my pillows, a nice glass of sweating ice water. There was nothing to escape.
Today, I can live with my thoughts and emotions. I don’t have that compelling need to run away, to seek refuge in some other place. I have more here at home than just a place to stash my personal items, I have the comforts of a living space. Something that should feel and be so simple, but, for the longest time, wasn’t for me.
The more I own myself, the more I own my space. The more present I become, the more welcoming it feels to just be here, eyes closed, in the soft hum of the fan in the heat of summer.