I don't know why I ever travel.
The same thing happens when I return: depression. I get home, drop the suitcase and flop into bed. Where I tend to mentally stay for the next week.
I'll get up the next morning and do the grocery shopping and clean the house and cook meals for my family and zone out in front of the computer. But, my personality won't return. Not yet. Not until resignation seeps into the spaces where resistance resides. Not until I once again give into my life and stop miring in its glaring inadequacies.
It takes a week or so for me to relax back into the fact that I'm living in a small town I hate hundreds of miles away from most of my friends and all of our family in a house that we may or may not be able to sell and without the prospect of another baby on the horizon.
I suppose its a form of mourning. Mourning what Chris and I have lost in the wake of the choices we've made. Choosing to move to a suburb which did not support our home businesses, our dreams for our daughter, our social lives, our aspirations, our personalities. Choosing to blow copious amounts of money when we had it. Choosing to not have another child two years ago when it would have been safer for all involved.
I realize now that most of the decisions we've made over the past few years have been made out of fear. And I'm tired of living my life through fear; through the filter of "what ifs". I want to take risks. I want to live richly. I want to learn from our mistakes and act differently.
Most of all, I just want to find where we belong.