If my words had wings, they would fly to you every day
I remember back in Freshman year, after I got over a huge fight with my mom, when I would actually get homesick and look forward to coming back to Bellevue. That all changed after spending my first college summer back at home living and working. After that I knew I had to move out. There's nothing more oppressive than coming back to a noisy, chaotic, anxious house full of bickering people. Like I said; I love them all individually, just not together. I can't deal with the sheer noise level of this place... it gives me a constant stress headache. My one coping mechanism is to sleep, and I'm doing a lot of it. I took a two hour nap yesterday afternoon and slept for nine hours (I know, yay me) last night.

The only real problem with sleeping here is that it makes those damn Dreams come back. At least my parents have replaced the god-awful air mattress in my "room" with a futon. Thank God I can sleep well, even if I wake up kind of weirdly haunted. I dunno though, what can I say? I went through my closet last night because I have to move some more stuff out of my room, and I unloaded about two hundred photos from a box and went through them. My God. I've really, and I mean REALLY, changed.

Really.

I took a shower this morning and used some of my family's Pantene Pro-V shampoo. They say there's no inducer of memory as strong as scent. I haven't worn this shampoo for at least three years and I used to wear it every day. All day I've been smelling my hair and having sensory deja-vu. It's very strange.

It's good to see my sisters again, and to know that my mom and dad are doing OK. Things are different here than the last time I was home. The deck has been completely redone; my parents have started a garden; my "room" (dad's study) is completely different. Why is it that they waited until I moved out to start making this place a home? Why is it that I only ever feel half-welcome here? Why is it that whenever I come I regress to old habits and old emotions? I feel trapped and stifled, cotton on the brain, content to sit and look out the window and stare.

I'm half a person when I'm with my family... the half they made. The only time I'm whole is when I'm building my own life. Here that doesn't seem to matter. It doesn't make any difference that I've accomplished as much as I have, that I do as much as I do. Half the time I'm here no one asks me anything about my life, the other half I'm picked apart and hyper-criticized. That half of me that is completely my own goes into hiding, comotose and cocooned deep in my brain.

Everything's so fuzzy. Music is more poignant here. There's no clarity in this house or with this family. It's all a muddled dream. Reality is outside waking life. Bring on the Dreams.