I don’t really know if it’s just the Monday blues, or PMS (for real this time), but whatever it is, it’s not good. Sitting in the Grammar Conference this morning, fighting the urge to shout at Benjamin to just shut the fuck up, and willing the caffeine to kick in, I was suddenly overcome by the violent urge to go home. Not even Buffalo-home, but home home. Maybe it’s because in exactly three weeks I’ll be on a plane back to the other side of the world, and right now time is flying and yet not moving fast enough. Maybe it’s because just a few hours ago someone told me, “I think you’ll like being home.” Or maybe it’s because no matter how much I snipe and gripe about it, deep down I really could be ready to go home.
When people ask if I look forward to going home, I always say, “Yes and no,” because to only say either one would be lying through my teeth. No, I don’t want to go home because I would be giving up all my friends and the only life I’ve known and loved for the last four years, to go back to next to nothing and living with my parents and my insufferable grandmother. No, I don’t want to go home because I’m afraid I’ll wake up one morning with the urge to sell my soul for a way to come back to America. Yes, I want to go home because I miss my mom and after the heinously difficult year I’ve had I want to just sit down with her and bawl my eyes out. Yes, I want to go home because at this point even going home would be a step up, after hitting rock bottom. And yes, I want to go home and see if anything will have changed along with my newfound perception of life itself.