“It’s better to feel pain, than nothing at all. The opposite of love’s indifference.” – The Lumineers
This line from The Lumineers stuck with me from the moment I heard it. It is the most true line I know. Love and hate are not opposites. Hate, like love, is derived from passion. It requires a lot of energy to HATE. To be indifferent is an empty existence, and one of the worst non-feelings there can be. To not care, to not feel any emotion, is a death sentence.
I was there. I was there for a very long time and I hated who it made me. I lived a life I was not proud of, I looked for situations that made me feel ANYTHING at ALL. Good or bad. But I still felt nothing.
Things have changed.
I get homesick a lot now.
Rust worries. I worry, I guess. It’s such a new feeling for me, to be homesick. In Texas, I do miss life in Virginia. I miss Seven. I miss my parents, my friends. I miss knowing exactly where I fit, knowing I cannot get jackfruit at the only grocery store in town (and do I even need it), knowing I won’t have to show an ID at the bank. I lived in Virginia my entire adult life. I know it. I know the roll of the green hills. I know the sections of The Bluffs I need to lay off the gas. I know where to look up and find the Big Dipper at any time of year.
When in Virginia, I miss Rust. I miss our bed, the way he can’t sleep unless he’s wrapped entirely around me. I miss the way our shared coffee is supposedly too sweet for him, but never sweet enough for my liking, how he watches me with wonder as I put on my makeup. I miss popcorn in bed and watching movies on Amazon, chicken wings at our favorite haunt, banana splits at his folks and how his dad delights in the special occasion treat. I miss waking up in the middle of the night with his hand on my belly, and knowing I am loved. That he is there and I am safe.
I am having a hard time finding my place.
I know that my place is in Texas, with my new life. My new work, my new love. But my roots are buried so deeply in Virginia it is hard to find the balance that allows me to just be comfortable.
Take, for example, last weekend.
Months ago, I booked every single ticket for Seven and myself to split my time between Texas and Virginia. Rust and I learned, over time, my threshold for being gone. 11 days is about my max. Or it was. Now, I struggle, I ache.
Seven and I were in Texas for Labor Day weekend, before I was to return to Virginia to stay until the 23rd. Rust is coming to visit on the 16th, his first visit of any length, and I am SO excited to show him where I began, what made me me. So essentially, I was going to be away from him from the 6th through the 16th.
I couldn’t bear it. I couldn’t even bear the thought of it.
Why? It’s 10 days. It’s ONLY ten days. But to me, it feels like forever.
I used to be gone from home for weeks at a time, on a book tour, or on media tours, or on work trips. I could stay gone, and I was fine. Now, I cannot bear it. I weep before I even have to leave. I worry and stress and make myself miserable. I don’t know how to explain it. It’s not that I don’t feel at home with my family in Virginia, I do. They have been so wonderful at letting me move in on my weeks spent here with Seven.
But I am NOT at home.
I am displaced, and I can’t shake the homesickness, no matter how I try to fill the days.
I’m not so sure what to do.
But, as you read this, I am in Texas, as Rust insisted any money spent to fly me home for a long weekend now was worth it, so I am home. I am most likely curled up with my new fiancée, eating flavored popcorn, watching football. And I am happy, but still fretting the days I will spend apart from him next week.
I am no longer indifferent.
I feel so many things.
Has anyone dealt with this themselves? Do you have a solution for me, or will I just settle in to this life as time goes by? I would love to hear your thoughts.