I hate the wandering life. Never setting down. Always the gypsy. The traveler. The visitor. The new person. Always lost. Like, I am searching for some home that I don’t know where it is, how far away, what it looks like, or where to go to find it.
The crap thing is I suck at reading maps.
My mom started this. I blame most things on her. I try and forgive her, it’s really best to do, but I think I lie to myself when I say I have and I try again at a relationship with her. It’s because there is a very large part of me that just hates her, even tho I’m always too ashamed to admit it, and blames her, for dragging me every where with her, like I was baggage. And just like I was baggage I was sometimes left behind too, until she’d remember to send money to fetch me.
She was always off to be with another man. They were always so much more important. She was always so focused on them. Each man of the hour, guest star on the next episode of our lives. I hated each and every one. They were all so .. alien. Loud, big, lumbering things, walking with heavy boots, and heavy voices and heavy handed with the way they touched everything. And my mom always would creep around them. Like they were giant months, blind but able to feel the vibration of her steps, so she had to walk like on glass. And if she did draw their attention, it was like drawing the attention of a dragon. Move, and it saw you, and you either got burnt or eaten.
Is it really any wonder I turned out a lesbian? Or that I feared men before I knew there might be a good reason to? Or that I feared the world for that matter? For always running away, never settling down, never feeling safe, all that lifestyle led me to more of the same.
I have moved more times than I can count and remember. I have learned to leave everything behind and just start over, again and again and again. I value, nothing. Things are replaceble. So are people. And it’s not any wonder why. People, tend to turn out bad, if you stay too long. If you know someone. Too long, they just turn out, bad. Eventually, they just don’t like you anymore. Eventually, inevitably, you overstay your welcome.
Or perhaps that was just because of her. My mother used people, never took care of herself, and always found someone else after the current one was done.
I have always wanted a home, loved ones that stick around, that actually care, beyond where their lives take them. I have always wanted it, voiced that want, searched for it, whined about not getting it. And I have always been disappointed. Sorely disappointed. And I think it’s because I really didn’t want it. I was too afraid
Afraid that once I found it, once I was confortable, there she’d be again, in the doorway, hushed voice, telling me to pack. It’s time to move again. We have to go. Now. It’s too dangerous to stay.
Fear. The grand motivation.
And now I’m homeless. And I fear having a home more than I fear this. Because I know, it’s going to diaappear. And I will be alone, left behind, or forgotten again. By eveyone.
I really have no one. If I stopped anwering my phone, if I disappeared, after a month, no one would even call. In fact, my family would but probably wouldn’t even notice I was gone.
That’s how valuable I am.
And I think I hate it and like it this way all at once together.
I’m tired of getting hurt.
I’m tired of losing people.
I’m tired of being left behind and forgotton.
I’m tired of having no one and nothing important.
But most of all, I’m tired of being so goddamn scared.
And here’s the ticket, I’m more aware now. All these things, blame my mother though she might actually deserve it, are my fault. I witnessed her be this way, I as a young child drew certain conculsions, beliefs, fears, and made them part of my reality.
I acknowledge her wrong, my feelings, and I see now what I’ve been doing as well.
I’ve been reliving her life.
I’ve been drawing to myself, more proof this is the way the world works. I have been wallowing in a wading pool, whinging about drowning when all along I could have just stood up.