February is here, that means your one month trial for 2018 has ended! I’m sitting at my desk at this temp job writing for a few magazines at once and I’m dying to get back to bed.
Truth is, I wasn’t ready for January to end – not even in the slightest. I need more time to gather the material things I plan to keep and prepare a mental cushion for all the questions that will follow my low-key announcement on being queer.
As an Indonesian, as a sister, a daughter, and as a friend there never was the issue of being too promiscuous when it came to the opposite gender, it was “oh that’s just her being thirsty” however when it the situation includes a person of the same sex, being a partner to someone, it’s treason. It’s an illness. I lost all grasps of being okay last night.
I disappointed the sisterhood of the Indonesian sorority-like friendship by wanting an emotionally based relationship. Betrayed by the judgement I’ve been wanting to stay under the safety net of my blanket. On the other side of the emotional spectrum of being mentally shattered, I’m going to have to go back and stay a while with my mother. So that’s gonna be so much fun. I’m overwhelmed, I’m exhausted, and I’m feeling that itch to getaway. anywhere but the “paradise” that is home.
Irony is at it’s best when it shows up in my life. Home is a feeling I don’t get from a place, home is not a location. Home is over my budget. Home is too busy for me. Home is making it hard for me to breathe. Home requires a visa. Home is the seven boxes in my living room. Home is the balcony I cry on. Cause what is home but a feeling? Home is the feeling I get when I’m safe. What’s a girl to do when that feeling is lost or packed in a cardboard box?
Holding my entity intact, I listen to Damien Rice singing and like the title of my favourite song, I feel delicate. Yesterday I sat in a room of strangers, she was the anchor that kept my anxiety at bay, it felt nice. This morning I took a cold shower and wondered if anyone could hear me weep. I don’t even know what triggered the rain of tears, I’m thinking I should go back to therapy. My work has yet to be affected, so that’s good. It’s the moments between articles, the silence between songs, the pauses between breathes.
I thought I was okay. I thought it would be okay. I was wrong. excuse me while I bubble through the day.