Sometimes I just want to go back home and sleep in my bed. I want to pretend like I never left, like I never went away all these years and I want to pretend like I never suffered because of my decision. I want to pretend like leaving wasn’t a mistake. I want to pretend like I didn’t waste the best years of my life away from the place that I belong to, the place where my heart resides.
Sometimes I wonder if running away really saved me or if it killed me.
Because ever since I left, I haven’t been myself. Ever since I left, I’ve been trying to adapt to a life that’s not for me and trying to be someone I never wanted to be.
I miss being understood. I miss being accepted. I miss being loved.
I miss the easy communication when there was more harmony than tension, I miss people laughing at my jokes, I miss knowing every corner and every person. I miss feeling safe.
I miss my best friends. I miss being around people I’ve known since I was five. I miss taking random trips to the beach and pouring my heart out to them knowing that they won’t judge me, knowing that they won’t make fun of my pain or my fears and I miss knowing that someone is always going to be there no matter what. I miss knowing that I’m surrounded by people who mean what they say. People who are my friends because of who I am not what I can do for them. People who want to spend time with me because they genuinely like me not because it’s convenient for them.
And sometimes I miss running into him. I miss going out knowing he might be in the same place. I miss seeing his face because it would put a smile on my face for the whole week. I miss seeing him. I miss him. Now every man I like is just another disappointment. Now every man I meet doesn’t intrigue me or excite me as much as he did. Now every man I meet is just another reminder that I’ll never find the man of my dreams here. I’ll never find him away from home. I’ll never find another one like him.
Sometimes I wonder how many signs do I need to realize that I’m going in the wrong direction and I need to turn back around. How many more closed doors do I have to knock on before realizing that I’m just not welcome here anymore. It’s not the place for me.
Sometimes I feel like leaving home made me realize how homeless I really am without it. Sometimes I wonder if I’m crazy for being in the best place in the world yet I always feel sick, I always feel alone. I always feel like an outsider.
Sometimes I wish I had stayed. In the chaos. In the mess. In the madness of it all — because to others, it’s pure insanity and they can’t wait to leave, but to me it’s home and I can’t wait to go back.