I always said I'd never move back to my home town.
I was so against everything that was familiar. I rejected the notion that I was a part of a place and time (and town) for a period of time and that would factor into who I became.
But. Home, dear friends, can be therapy.
My natural instinct is to shy away from anything public or open-forum when I'm hurting. I recall events and emotions very well after time has passed. Usually years. But fresh pain is sacred territory. And I don't feel right about sharing anything painful while it's happening because it's too much. Kind of like the first day or so after you've burned yourself. You can't jump in the shower without that familiar and unwanted sting.
I ignored this blog for a few weeks because of some things that went on that I couldn't control and/or have the clarity to write about. And that is silly. Because I'm human and you're human and it's all about the human experience, right? I feel what you feel. Even if one or both of us refuses to acknowledge it.
So let's talk about boundaries.
What is it about a proverbial line in the sand that raises hackles? Those that have been around the longest have an unspoken need and self-fulfilled right to anything going on in their loved one's lives. Thoughts, feelings and physical goings-on are all fodder for debate and discussion.
But, really: they aren't.
So when I draw an appropriate line to someone whom I respect and admire, and they balk, I'm left with a basket of messy emotions that I didn't choose to confront. I think I am guilty of expecting too much from some, and not enough from others. And when expectations aren't met, I am heartbroken.
Nonetheless, I deal with heartbreak exponentially better as an adult than I did as an adolescent.
I get out.
I speak to strangers.
I take pictures.
And I write.
Thank God for Puyallup. My home town.