And so...here I am

I've been back in the desert for two weeks.  The moment I stepped off the airplane, I felt the overwhelming heat of this desert.  The swamp-like feel to the air is stifling.  I hate it.  I can't figure out why I'm here now.  I originally came here to escape.  Now I want to escape from this place I've called "home" for almost a year.  I feel displaced.  I don't know where my home is anymore.  When I left, I ran from everything familiar because I was afraid of the pain.  I was afraid of my thoughts and what those thoughts were doing to me.  I thought about dying.  A lot.  Two days ago, I re-read all of the posts on this blog.  My thoughts as I read, were this...the woman that wrote it, was faking it.  She was trying so hard to move forward, but the pain was still so evident.  I read about a woman so torn in half by guilt and sorrow that she kept apologizing and explaining and defending all of her actions and decisions.  I hurt for that woman who sought redemption.  I hurt for that woman that needed to explain.  I hurt for that woman that wanted nothing more than to be forgiven.  I hurt for me.

As time progressed, I saw moments of her former self.  I saw her sense of humor and ability to laugh at herself and her mistakes.  I saw the pain lessen and the instinct of survival take root.  I saw her start to be okay.  Then she went home.  I went home.  The first week was relief.  I was so sick and needed my mom to take care of me.  I came home physically sick and run down.  I came home with a broken spirit.  Ready to throw everything I'd fought for away, and tell everyone...I give up. I'm back and I have nothing left to fight with.

I arrived the night before the 4th of July.  I was so happy to be going home.  I was  excited to see my mom, my kids...I was so happy.  I was home.  The feeling was indescribable.  I drove along the lake shore road towards my mom's place.  The smells were comforting and familiar.  I had the windows unrolled so my dog could smell it too.  I was almost home to the cabin where I'd spent so many of my childhood summers.  I could see the early evening boaters and a few skiers capturing the last few hours of daylight on the lake.  I was overcome with joy.  When I walked down those stairs into the cabin and saw the corny sign that said "Five skiers to a Bed" I smiled from the sense of familiarity. 

My mom greeted me with a hard embrace, both of us laughing and crying at the same time.  I was home.  I had requested the back bedroom because it was darker and quieter than most of the other rooms.  Part of my step family was there, but my mom moved mountains to make sure I had that bedroom.  No one was more important than her daughter.  I felt so loved.

The next few days were spent catching up.  It was a special time for my mom and I.  As we spent long hours in conversation, I realized how much she had aged.  I saw how worried she had been about me.  I saw her wince in pain every time she moved from the toll of osteoporosis.  I noticed how much she talked about getting well and her frustration of being in so much pain.  I should be taking care of her instead of her taking care of me.  She is only 70.  This is scary.  And I'm right behind her.

I was recovering slowly from the pneumonia, resting and allowing my mom to nurture me and be a mom.  I helped her and scolded her for doing things she knew she wasn't supposed to be doing.  I made my bed every day and did the chores I did as a child.  In the morning we would share a cup of coffee on the porch, watching the early morning skiers, and the Osprey swooping in to pick up a fish. At night we would sit together and watch 'The Bachelor," making funny, snarky, comments about the absurdity of it all.  Most nights, I went to bed early.  I woke up more rested and began to feel healthier with every day that passed. 

I moved into my "treehouse" at the end of the first week and settled in to receive my friends and family as guests and spend time alone on this beautiful lake.  Anyone and everyone was invited to come see me there.  I had no cell service or internet and was forced to break my technology habit.  I kayaked daily, in the quiet hours of the morning with my dog on the bow,  feeling the burn and strain of the muscles in my arms with every dip of the paddle into the still water of the bay, I felt stronger.  I allowed myself to be quiet.  The only music that could be had was one station on an old radio.  I sang along to old country songs while I cooked and BBQ'd for myself in the evenings.  The days felt long and not rushed.

 One day while I was still at the treehouse, I drove into town.  I was feeling disconcerted.  I couldn't put my finger on it, but I knew I needed a change of scenery for a few hours.  I was still recovering, and my chest was still racked with a painful, nagging cough that wouldn't go away.  I had made an appointment with a massage therapist.  Already feeling down before I got there, I lay down on the bed and waited.  She had a quiet, soothing voice and asked me a few questions.  I answered her questions with short answers, wanting to sink into the massage and feel that dreamy, quiet state overcome me.   Her firm, rhythmic hands, found every sore muscle.  All the sadness I had been feeling came to the surface and I started to cry. I don't know what happened.  That's never happened to me before.  I cried through most of the massage.  She pretended not to notice.

The rest of the summer was spent living out of a suitcase.  I drove from lake to lake,  my water ski in the front seat of my car, begging a ski from anyone that would pull me; couch surfing at anyone's house that would offer me a bed.

Looking back, I see how broken I still was when I arrived.  I wanted to believe how far I had come, but the reality of the decimation and rubble of the life I'd left, was hard to deny.  The time spent finally facing the pain I'd run from became healing, but not until after another crisis forced me to get real with what had happened and my responsibility in all of it.  The truth hurt, but I was no longer committed to the lie.  This time, there was no where to run   I was here now.  I couldn't hide out in my cabin or home.  It wasn't there anymore.  It hurts me to know that this will be the year my family will remember as..."The year I fell apart and ran away from home."
So I quit running.  I was tired.  I am tired.  Now I am walking.  One step at a time, one day at a time.  Resolution is near and I am planning my future.  I want to go home.  The Prodigal daughter.  

I ended my stay in the cabin I raised my children.  On a lake that holds special memories.  I had a tiny romance that filled me with hope, that still makes me smile as I remember, and my voice soften when I get to talk about him.  And then I flew back.

So now I'm back.  In Arizona.  The place I ran to.  In this oppressive heat that makes me wonder what I was thinking.  Oh, not all the time.  But now, while the weather is so mild in the Northwest, as their Indian Summer begins and the leaves begin to change color.  I didn't know I would be this homesick.

But, it was a good summer.  I reconnected with my children.  I had good quality time with my mom, I spent time with my friends.  I came back feeling rested.  And although I came back to a lonely apartment,  just me and my dog,  I felt missed here.   And so...here I am.  For now.