"I'm going home."
What's my home? Is it the ranch-style collection of bricks and yellow lights, with out-of-place blue shutters? With its rotting basement and rooms that you can disappear into and never return from?
No.
Because I'm not safe, at home. I have a computer and phone and open window and unlocked door, and anyone can find me.
It's so easy to panic and go over the edge here.
Home doesn't exist. Not in the traditional sense. I can't just go home.
I have to let go of everything else.
Home is a soft, blue and pink cushion of clouds hidden beneath a dark tangle of obligations. Only by releasing myself from each of the snares and relaxing can I find home.
It's been a while. But I think I'm home, now.
(Can't get home? I had a little help from Taylor Swift's "Cornelia Street," aka the most relaxing song ever, which works wonders for anxiety. "Daylight" can come after it.)
