Sunday Scaries

Things that I’m feeling that I’m scared to say but are somehow easier to write:

On Sundays I get this homesick feeling, it doesn’t matter where I am, if I’m home or not, it suffocates me in a way I can’t explain. It’s only on Sunday’s. Always on Sunday’s. I used to miss my old home, where my family was a single entity and divided into fours. I would sit outside that house in Nash in my Grey Nissan Altima, and then again in my black Honda Civic the next year. I’m surprised the cops didn’t get involved it was that frequent. But on Sunday’s I spent hours there. I parked my car a little ways a way and walked down to the house. I would sit at the pond that held so many memories of my past and cry out all of the brokenness that made its nest in me that week. I sat in the same spot every week, the same spot where I fell to my knees when I found out my parents were getting a divorce. It was on the left side of the house overlooking the edge of the pond. I think I’ve grown from that spot, it was about time, but Sunday’s are still just as painful.

The worst part about Sunday’s is the fact that I don’t know what causes the homesick feeling.

When Sunday’s come around now I think about memories that I’ll never get back. Ones that I never really thought that I would lose. I knew my parents would get a divorce, it was just in the cards. I knew that from a young age, I just didn’t know when. It was the timing that affected me, it wasn’t the act itself. I genuinely never thought that I would lose as much as I did. That I would win the biggest game of my season, only to watch it all evaporate in the second half.

When you’re used to giving all of yourself to everything, to everyone you think that it will eventually return in the form of a milestone. But it didn’t, it hasn’t. It’s a series of losses. It’s been one thing after another, and I don’t know how I’m still fucking standing. If I’m anything to anyone I want to be a testament that after all of the hurt, all of the self sabotage, all of the physical and mental pressure that one can put on themself, they can still find the light at the end of the tunnel. I’m not there yet. I truly don’t know if I’m close, but I’m not done. My story isn’t over and I’m not about to let a continuous stream of setbacks keep me from being who I was born to be.

It’s Sunday and I’m missing a few things in particular. If it’s meant to be it will be. I’m patient.