Monday, April 15, 2013


I thought I'd get back to myself a bit while I was back east or something. That I'd find myself or get back to who I think I am or just remember why I left in the first place. Something, you know? Like, give me some fucking answers, Universe. I feel I've gotten so far from myself lately that I am struggling to get through anything except the bare minimum of going to class and writing papers when necessary. Motivation feels minimal and not in the end-of-the-semester way I remember from undergrad.

All I really got out of my trip personally was to feel like Indianapolis was suddenly huge. Sprawling, climbing into the sky, whizzing past. Parts of that were okay, I like to drive fast on the grids of street that stretch in all directions. But you know, I've never felt intimidated by the size, the number of people, the way the suburbs span on forever and ever past the belt that sucks in the cities' waist.  Until now. There's so much of it, you know? How quickly we forget. How badly I wanted to when I left. And it's not like it's even close to the biggest city I've lived in, it's not. It's just what I went back to is all. 

And then there were other moments where the places that used to offer me comfort only served to make me want to chain smoke and drink heavily. Whenever, whatever. Not all of them, but enough that it wasn't a balm for my soul.

To be around the people who hold your context, who know you that well, with that longevity, and still love you forcefully and protectively when you need it, it's good. I think maybe it will always feel good. It's good in a way that feels frenzied and forced, though. Like you have to make some epic times or have some life-changingly meaningful conversation. Like you have to find a way to express to them how much they mean to you. But, you can't. Not really. The secret to it is in the way that you live. And it's not even really a secret, it's just a sucky truth that I usually deny or ignore. You can't really search for something that hard if you expect to remember where you put it in the first place. It just seems to make me doubt everything.

It is in the way that you live, though.  It's in picking up the phone, even if you're only going to say "I have to call you back later." It's in driving five hours for a hug, because you finally can. Because it's ONLY five hours. It's in doing the right thing, I guess, even though you don't want to. Listening when you have a million of your own things to say. Your hurt parts that need bandaged. 

Anyway. My niece turned a year old and she got baptized and I am her god mother and I can't wait to tell her about love and trusting herself and how faith can (and maybe should) look different for everyone because we are all experiencing life in our own beautiful and terrible way. About how church can look a million different ways. About how, for me, church feels like listening to someone you like talk about something or someone they really, really love. Even though I don't go to the actual building with the steeple anymore, I have faith. I think that's right for me. I'm new to the whole godmother thing, hopefully I do an okay job. 

My sister is having a tough time and my grandparents are taking care of each other and my parents are still a safe place to bounce ideas off of. My friends are still hilarious and supportive and reaching and striving and making things happen. And I think they're happy, too. Which makes my heart a little less heavy. 

I got back to Montana and I was exhausted. I feel like I really never stopped moving the entire time I was out east. And that's okay. But 12 days is a long time to be in motion. To worry about what other people want more than you. To feel like if you spend time with one person, you're disappointing all the others. I needed to come home to the mountains to think straight. To be alone. To get back to myself, I guess. Maybe I shouldn't have looked so far. At least I got to get back to some of the people I love for a little bit, who for now are fully in the east. Who are not far from themselves. Who are home. 

And now I realize my home is not theirs anymore. But they still are mine in some ways. For me, that feels fine.  

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