Saturday, January 15, 2011


I knew it was going to be rough, moving home after seven years of being away, first in the Marine Corps and then on my own in San Diego.  I knew it was going to make me feel as if I were 17 again.  The thing I didn't know was how little I like who I was at 17, and how much I've grown since then.  So maybe it's been harder than I thought it would be.

We're all trying to get along with each other; to be patient and flexible and make allowances.  But we're not the same people we were seven years ago, and it's unreasonable to expect ourselves to have the same dynamic now that we did then.

It hasn't been easy.  Besides all this loaded "I'mlivingwithmyparentsagain" angst, I miss my friends, my jobs, my community, and San Diego itself.  But one thing, more than anything else--more than the cancer, more than my racist bosses--can trigger the worst feelings I've had since I've been back:  My mom has this habit of gathering all the random things that I've left out--mail, a purse, shoes, whatever--and putting it in a pile near the door.

It makes me feel SO unwanted.

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