I’ve been packing off and on all day. Along with the last house chores I’m responsible for, until I return home in May.
Packing is incredibly lonely. When no one’s home or there, I’m less inclined to keep at it. Especially when I’m going from home to elsewhere (in this case back to college).
I don’t go to school very far from where I’ve lived for well over a decade. But I’m so busy I rarely get to come back, until Winter and Summer vacations roll around again. So it’s not surprising then, really, that packing to leave from home again is so tiring for me. And I feel a bit empty. January is always the one month I wish I could remain at home. It’s a hard month.
The past leaves aches. And though I’ve scarred over, January is still the month I want to be reclusive and selfish and withdrawn. Let me be. Let me hurt and contemplate. Let me do what I need to, in order to recover beautifully as is expected and witnessed time and time again for near a decade.
Mom came home. Baked cookies. It was nice. And left a bittersweet taste on my tongue as I bit into the crispy chocolate chip delicacies. I’m already missing home, and I haven’t even left yet. Being home for a month allows me just enough time to feel adjusted. Now I’m being ripped away again, to spend four months trying to find the easiest way through finishing my degree, with less headaches than necessary.
Bittersweet. It’s all so bittersweet. What helps is that I’ll be spending this coming weekend with one of my best friends. The ache should lessen by then, as well as work on a massive self-project she and I are involved in.
I’ll be alright. I always am. People forget that I’m strong, just as they forget that I’m soft and vulnerable, too.
I leave at 10:ooam. I doubt I’ll be sleeping much…