I moved home. Well, I moved into my own little place just 15 minutes from my parent’s house.
My first few days back were weird and the reality of my decision finally set in. I was sad. I cried. This life was never part of my plan.
When I was 15 or 16, I used to think that by the time I turned 30, my life would be glamorous, I would be tremendously successful, and the meaning of life would be clear… I’m almost 32. I have no job. I am alone. I am starting over. I have no idea why this is happening to me or to my family. I think a lot about karma these days: Why did I choose to be born to this demented woman? Am I being punished by some higher force? Is there some lesson I’m supposed to take with me to my next life? Am I in Hell? Is this human experience simply meant to teach me the value of patience?
So not part of the plan. At least there’s a Starbucks in Hell.
Of course, this move really is a chance to mend my family; to spend time with my mom before she gets even worse; and to hopefully become a better, more patient and loving human being
What has happened these past three or four days, and what proves this was a good move, is that I can spend small or large increments of time with my parents and when I’m cooked, I can go home and decompress. Very important.
I said in an earlier post that if my gut had said stay in New York City, I would have stayed, but my insides screamed at me to move back to Phoenix. Despite the hurt I’ve felt these past few weeks and the pain and disappointment I may have caused others, I know this move was the right choice for me.