It’s hard to sleep in beds that aren't your own.
The clock reads 6:23 am and I’ve been up for about two hours now. The thunder rolling outside my window only just came to a close and I traded the sound for the white noise of a ceiling fan keeping me cooler than I’d like. My eyes aren’t happy about the light from my phone but I’ve been awake for too long with the chatter of my mind not to write.
In less than two months from today I’ll basically be living out of my car and I can’t stop thinking about that this morning. I think it was the thunder, and the accompanying realization that I’d be huddled with Apollo in the back of a Mazda 5 encapsulated in our little metal box in unfamiliar places during other moments such as this. He is so afraid of thunder storms. The projection of that moment in my mind makes the feeling of his trembling body against my belly seem real already.
What am I doing?
At this exact moment I’m writing from the guest room of my best friend Steph’s house. We’re both closer to 30 than 20 and yet we still think a sleepover sounds fun. I can’t quite get comfortable despite how comfortable I feel in this house and I lie awake trying not to count how many days I have left to sleep in my own bed.
59. I have 59 days.
Funny how our wild, wild dreams change form isn’t it? Two years ago all I wanted in the world was that little apartment in a 100-year old building in El Cid, and the green velvet couch that sits inside that I sold last night for more than it’s worth and at the same time way, way under its value. In this moment I’d give anything to both keep that couch, and not feel so attached to it. I suppose something in me wants to leave for that very reason. Discomfort seems to be a place I can’t help but chase.
Either I’m on a path of expansion,
or I’m a glutton for punishment.
This last week I casually announced that I was leaving and my inbox blew up. Honestly I was a bit annoyed. I get that way sometimes - irritated with people (Hey, trauma 👋 ). But I can’t stop the question marks my brain draws when people who literally never ever reach out, say they’re going to miss me and want to see me before I go. Um, hello...I’ve been here for YEARS. Years. Now suddenly the notion of my departure brings you nostalgia? I think sometimes we just want to feel like we’re part of something and inserting ourselves into the community that will genuinely miss a person, is probably not dissimilar to a hit of Ecstasy as far as feel-good chemicals are concerned. I’m speculating. I have no idea what Ecstasy feels like.
You’re getting to experience a lot of me there with that confession and I don’t write it without a bit of harsh self criticism.
“People are telling you they’ll miss you and you find some sort of problem with that you cynical fuck?!”
Often the judgment I place on my emotional responses is worse than the response itself.
Have I told you before how human I am?
I’ll still bleed red if you cut my decorated flesh, which I’m pretty sure is the same as you, so, I can reason with this pre-sunrise truth purge. As “evolved” as I might perceive myself to be within my own consciousness, I still bleed warm, red blood and get fucking salty about other people who do the same.
I’m so freaking scared to leave.
I’m so sick of living here and yet I am attached to the notion of “home” in the most primal and involuntary ways. I’m a spoiled white American woman who has never been at any REAL risk of losing her creature comforts and who hasn’t left the sexy little bubble of the South Florida tropics since she was brought here. I’ve never not had the option of sleeping in a bed that was my own in a temperature controlled environment with people who love me within reach. I’ve only gone without a “tribe” once before, for a couple of years there in my early 20’s and it nearly killed me. I am the definition of “too blessed to be stressed”. And still, I long to redefine what “home” means.
Everyone wants an answer.
“Where are you going?”
Honest to god I don’t know. Michigan in November and that’s all I’ve got. From there an open road lies ahead and I hope to high heaven that I’m not being a selfish POS for taking Apollo with me. In these moments of genuine fear I whisper to myself that I can always bring him back here to someone that will gladly hold him while I’m gone.
I whisper to myself that I can always return.
I whisper “don’t be a pussy” in the same breath.
Palm to face.
If you look past my earlier salt, you can perhaps hear me when I say that I genuinely love people. I will miss people here in a way that makes my throat close as I type. There’s a child inside me that just wants to be reached for and known and chosen by a tribe. That child formed the world I live in now where people know my name and perceive that they’ll miss having me close when I’m not. That child is probably giving me the nudge to leave to help me keep healing the moments where she felt alone. I will no doubt have days and nights where I feel lonely and surviving will look like talking to strangers and learning to build community again from scratch. That’s why we feel loneliness - to remind us to reach so we can live.
Intuition by my definition is as an inner guidance system that speaks uninhibited by the storage of trauma or learned programs and conditions in the body and psyche. Underneath all of that it can be hard to hear and feel but it still speaks.
I have lived in South Florida for 23 of my 28 years. Not because I chose to but because I was brought here. It’s a learned program. It’s what my conscious mind “knows”.
My intuition says it’s time to unlearn. It says:
When the program is erased, what will you choose? Where will you be guided? Are you willing to let Nature move through you now? Because it wants to. Can you give the world back its stories and write your own? What do YOU really want?”
Beneath the blanket of a fear that is keeping me awake at night, is a voice that says something I can’t un-hear...