I’m sitting in the airport waiting to go back to Seattle after a long absence and some legal troubles. Tonight I’ll see my roommate again, hug my cat again, be near my Seatown friends and sleep in my own bed.
That should feel great.
While I was away I developed an anxiety disorder that makes driving for half an hour a terrifying ordeal. Imagine a two-hour flight like that. No, don’t. It’s better if you don’t. The anxiety also makes it hard for me to trust people, to identify my friends who I haven’t seen in a month or so as the same people they were when I left and to know that they’re not out to hurt me. I can do it, logically (because they’re amazing people), but it takes a lot of time and conscious relaxation. Sometimes more than I can muster.
My grandfather also died. He was the only human being I felt very, very similar to and now I’m adrift and lonely. I cry a lot. I’m a different person than I was when I left. In many ways, a weaker one.
I recognize my new kind, the quiet strength it took to get me through customs and into this seat.
I hope it lasts.