It was just another Friday night. Another Friday night where I would typically stay at home, curl up on my couch and watch reruns of What Not To Wear. Another lazy Friday evening at home.
But I didn’t want to be at home. Whether it was simple boredom or the fact the wall in my kitchen makes an obnoxious tapping sound every five seconds or a combination of the two, I wanted out.
I hopped in my car and went to the nearby mall. I thought I could see a movie. Wasn’t sure which one, just whatever wasn’t sold out yet.
Being that it was Friday, the parking lot was packed. Cars circled around each other, speeding down the rows, screeching to a halt.
I decided to forgo my movie attempt. It was just too cold and I just didn’t have the patience.
Whether it was the frustration of the traffic or the fact it was the end of another week or a combination of that and the fact I was once again sitting alone in my car, I started to cry.
It’s like an out of body experience with someone else in control of my emotions. Why am I crying, I thought. Nothing had happened. But that was exactly the problem. There was nothing there.
My tears blurred the headlights of the cars and I blinked furiously.
I have to drive. I have to drive.
I have no idea where I am going.
Even when I lived in Eugene and was going through the period of time where I was very depressed, with the cutting and the therapy and the whole bit, I always had someone I could call, someone I could visit, someone who was there for me.
And I didn’t know who to call on Friday. It’s nobody’s fault, really. I have been making excuses for the past four months about why I haven’t made any friends except for the ones that I was technically already friends with. I have been pretending that making plans to go into the city or drive to Boston or Washington D.C. is a perfectly acceptable method of creating a social life.
But it isn’t, obviously. It isn’t enough when I’m alone on a Friday night, wondering what I should do and whether it would be worth to drive all the way into the city just to be near people.
I flipped my phone open. I closed it. I flipped it open again. I didn’t know who to call.
Dozens of phone numbers and no one to call.
Those trips are the Band-Aids covering up the illness that I’m trying desperate to convince everyone, including myself, that I don’t have.
I’m a little bit homesick.
I feel like one of the characters in Garden State and I’m reminded of the line in the movie that goes,
“You’ll see when you move out it just sort of happens one day one day and it’s just gone. And you can never get it back. It’s like you get homesick for a place that doesn’t exist. I mean it’s like this rite of passage, you know. You won’t have this feeling again until you create a new idea of home for yourself, you know, for your kids, for the family you start, it’s like a cycle or something. I miss the idea of it. Maybe that’s all family really is. A group of people who miss the same imaginary place.”
I wonder how long it will take before the imaginary place becomes real again.