Home Is Where the Inspiration Is

I am back in Reisterstown.

The air is dry and bitter.

My room is oddly small.

The floorboards make the same doleful sounds they always have.

My clothing lies in the same haphazard piles in which it was left.

The same skeletons remain in the small, harshly fluorescent closet.

I forced myself to forget that all this shit belonged to me.

This is the main reason why I don't enjoy vacations much. It's similar to drinking too much; you forget all stresses momentarily, but you inevitably come back to yourself, and then those stresses seem so much more prominent.

I don't have coping skills and I don't have anyone to lighten the burden.

I need help, I need help, I need help.

This home isn't where I belong. I belong where my heart wants to be. I belong in a place that isn't going to cause brackish tears to sting my face as they are right now. I belong in a place that inspires me to live, inspires me to prosper, and encourages growth rather than stifles all inspiration and cultivates nothing other than self-destructive thoughts.

To me, home isn't where one happened to be born. Home may not even be where one's family resides. Home is where one feels strong, insightful, and inspired, even if only for a moment. I've felt like that in this house earlier on in my life, but right now, this isn't what my soul needs.

Never have I felt so childishly vulnerable.

I need help, I need a hug, I need help.