It’s so strange to return. I’ve been inside. It feels like a ghost town. There is no trace of me left. I feel so tall, everything feels so low down and far from me. The very smell, the essence, the vibe, it’s all changed. It was bad while I was there. But now, now it just feels dead.
It feels empty. I walked into what used to be my room, where I slept, where I wrote, where I cried, where I did everything. Nothing of mine is there anymore. It is all changed around, to be made known that not only am I gone, but that I was so gone it needed to be rid of any trace of me.
The doorknob itself is different. The bathroom mirror that I did my makeup in, that I fixed my hair in. I walked in there and the girl staring back at me was nothing of who she was when she lived here. It was a good yet terrifying feeling. Who would’ve thought that this place would one day not be my home? That what was once so familiar, would become so unfamiliar?
I walk through and feel numb. There is no feeling of nostalgia. No pain. No nothing. Just the warped whirlwind of how everything’s changed. I felt the feelings I used to feel there, it’s a place of trauma. I remember everything that happened in the front yard, in the living room, in my bedroom. Those things stay in my memory.
It was dark, windy and rainy. I remembered so many nights that I came home, to what was once my home. The endless trap. It was never okay but it was a routine. An erratic one, but a routine at that. I never had to wonder where my family was, they were right there sleeping under the same roof as me.
Freedom is good. Freedom is necessary. Everything that’s happening, everything that’s happened over the last few months, had to, was bound to. I feel very free, finally at last to do the things I want, to be who I am, to laugh and be free spirited. To live the way I was always meant to. But the transition is terrifying. Seeing where I once was, was stunning. It’s too much to wrap my head around.
No one sets themselves up somewhere, to one day have to leave.
I’m forgetting. The way my room looked.
I’m forgetting. The way I felt waking up there.
I’m forgetting. Saying goodnight to my family in person.
I’m forgetting. Sitting in the living room.
I’m forgetting. Making coffee in the kitchen.
I’m forgetting. The laughter that would sometimes clear the air of the constant negative presence.
I’m forgetting. The Sunday morning church services.
I’m forgetting. That house being my home.
The wind it blew as I walked out the door, the trees rustling reminding me again and again, a mantra, a song, that this is how it must go. How it was always set to go. How I will be okay. How I am doing everything I can. How the storm weather stays with me and pushes me forward, for it always has.
Forgetting is good, I let go of everything that once lived there, including the version of myself. My presence there faded just as strongly as it did in myself, as I became something else entirely.
Who I was, walking in there, was a stranger in a world no longer my own. And nothing, nothing is more monumental then that.