“I’m not suicidal, I just don’t want to get out of bed.”

December 26, 2009 at 8:05 pm (Uncategorized)

Anyone who spends time with me on a regular basis knows that I’m not a big fan of coming home to Morgan Hill.  There’s nothing particularly wrong with Morgan Hill.  It’s a small town-well, maybe not that small anymore- and it is more or less peaceful.  Kind of boring.  I grew up here. I want to say that’s the problem, and while it’s part of it, it’s not so simple an answer.
Maybe it’s because my mom lives here.  Yeah, that’s probably a large part of it.  During my stay here so far for the holidays, I’ve been paranoid to go grocery shopping, go to the library, or just anywhere that my mom might be. It’s fantastically fun.
I’m going back to Santa Cruz tomorrow.  This should make me happy.  Instead I’m melancholy about it.  It’s not that I’m going to miss Morgan Hill terribly, it’s that I’m going to miss my grandparents’ house.
Throughout my life, only one thing has remained the constant- my grandma and grandpa’s home.  True, the house has changed colors, there’s different furniture in some rooms, and the original eucalyptus trees in the front yard have been replaced by young birches.  But the energy of the place remains the same.  It, for me, is a sanctuary.  It’s the most stable thing in my life, where almost everything else is chaotic and subject to change.  When I stay here, I feel calm, I sleep well.  For the last month, I haven’t slept well.  At all.  My first night here on Wednesday was the first time in four weeks that I slept the whole night through.  When I stay here, I fall into a routine that doesn’t make me cringe with the potential boredom of it all, but makes me comfortable.  I get up sometime before ten in the morning, and in whatever order suits me at the time, I brush my teeth, take a shower, make the bed, and get dressed.  After making myself presentable, I go and say good morning to Grandpa and to my grandma, when she was alive.  I eat breakfast.  We have dinner between five and six.  Grandpa and I go upstairs and use our computers and watch television.  Usually at this point I go out with Brenden or Katie if she’s home.  I get home late, got to sleep, and start the routine over again in the morning.  Except for differences throughout the years (ten-yer-olds don’t go out with their boyfriends and I didn’t have access to high speed internet back then) this routine has stayed the same for my entire life.
Normally, I can’t stand routine.  I’m excited by the fact that every day holds promise of something new happening.  I don’t like plans.  Yet, routine grounds me.  I need routine to keep stable.  I can only keep a routine in Morgan Hill, at my grandparents’ house.
Since Thanksgiving, my emotions have not been stable.  I can’t let them out, the negative ones at least.  Anger that has burned me for years threatens to spill over constantly, and has on one occasion.  I’ve had the urge to cry at random moments at least three times a day. No tears come out.    I sleep for hours and I’m still exhausted at the end of the day.  I forget to eat until I realize I’m ravenous.  I overlook responisbilities.
I know it isn’t healthy.  Trust me, I know.  Most days I just want to curl into a ball amidst my blankets with all of my books and just stay there for the rest of my life.  I’m surprised I haven’t done it.  I don’t feel this way at my Grandpa’s though.  When I wake up refreshed (how odd) and when I look out the window, I’m not scared or overwhelmed.  I feel good. I wish I could attain this peace of mind in Santa Cruz.  You think I would, when the major sources of my problems *cough* Mom *cough* is a an hour away with a mountain range between us.  It’s hard to though, and I don’t know why.  I wish there was a way to take my grandparents’ house with me to Santa Cruz, just put in my pocket and take it out on some nice piece of land by the ocean and be content.  The idea makes me smile.  I can’t though.  Damn.

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