As I sit here at my desk this morning writing this, nearly two years have passed. The sun is shining and I’m in a good place physically and mentally. I’ve had my coffee. My writing is going well and I’ve been meeting my daily output goals. But reliving this particular moment has clamped my throat shut, tightened my chest, and caused my palms to sweat. I don’t know if I can do this justice, but I will try to explain what it felt like to be me at that moment, and why I was a terrified mess at the idea of going home before I believed I was ready.
|The House Of Stairs|
“It’s common to feel that way at first, but you’ll surprise yourself at how quickly you improve.”
“Have you arranged for home nursing care?”
His eyes got big. “Well, no.”
The instant I saw my house, I was overcome with emotions. There it was. My home. My refuge. The place I’d been dreaming about for so long. It looked beautiful to me, even on a dreary afternoon in late February. But, much like the way I felt about my own body, this old place and I were strangers. When I used to come home after time away, I would feel a sense of warm welcome. On this homecoming, I felt confusion and intimidation. All I could think about was the narrow doorways and the skinny, sloped, and crooked driveway. I worried about the lack of handrails and the steps that were, literally, everywhere. My beloved house didn’t fit me anymore. I didn’t fit it.