I complimented someone today and told him he looked preppy, and he told me I looked like I was on the ass-end of a bender.
Right on.
Add that to the list of reasons I engage with people as seldom as possible.
Another person asked me how I deal with the daily traumas of parenting a child with metal health issues. I couldn't answer her right away, so I gave her a letter. She thanked me with a teary hug, but she couldn't speak for fear of actual weeping.
I like that response better.
Maybe we're all better off not talking. Maybe I'm better off with perpetual rocks in my pockets. Sinking. Breathing in water. Reminding myself that since most of me is made of water, I should return to it. I should go home.
Home is such a complex idea. Endless cliches fit into that one word, "home". Home is where the heart is. Home is wherever your people are. Home is where people don't judge you.
But, to quickly deconstruct a word, "home" is none of those things; it's simply a syllable people use to imply both comfort and judgement, both unity and division. The place where there is a bed and a change of clothes and a meal. (if you're lucky)
For now, my home is here, in a place, with some people, very few of whom I have any solid connection with. But there are a handful of souls who make me want to stay alive in this tragi-comedy called life. I am grateful for people who care, and I try to be among those who have not given up on life and love, every single day. The effort is massive and heavy, but random acts of kindness and genuine connections lighten the weight often enough that I can keep my head above the water for now.
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