It would be wrong and somewhat selfish for me to claim that these recent years haven’t been good. We’ve officially lived in the greater L.A. market for five years now and we’ve made some excellent friends and done some really fun stuff. Granted, the actual town we live in isn’t a place I ever would have picked to live, but it does have its charm. Kind of.
Still, there has been something wrong for the entirety of our stay here. Something has been off. Do you know that feeling of impending doom that crawls in and out of your mind during a day full of mundane routine? Maybe you’re unsure if you left the oven on. Maybe you forgot something important at the office, or someone you love is driving through an ice covered pass- there are countless reasons for that feeling to occur, and it usually passes as nothing, a fleeting moment of worry gone quietly into the night.
I have that feeling all the time. For five years now I’ve felt like something was wrong. It keeps me awake at night. For some time I pretended it wasn’t there. Sometimes it would go away, usually with doses of beer and medicinal laughter, but it always returned and it always outstayed its welcome.
I know what it is. It’s unhappiness.
That’s the selfish part that I was referring to. How could I be unhappy when I’ve two beautiful boys and the means to spend my entire day in their company? I couldn’t ask for anything more.
And then I press my head against my pillow and I stare into the dark.
I don’t belong here. I don’t like it here. This is not my home, despite my hearts being here. I need to get out of this town and go where the weather suits my clothes. I have grown restless and it fills me with anxious ticks and heavy sighs.
We need to move. I want to go home- wherever that is.