So, I've officially been here for a week and I still don't feel at home. I don't expect that will change any time soon; at least not until I move back out on my own. Don't get me wrong, I love my family, but moving in with them hasn't made me like them that much more. I've been a glorified babysitter since I've been back and I havn't written anything significant to feel the least productive on top of that, so it's been altogether miserable. Well, I can't say I havn't written anything significant. I did have a nightmare a few nights ago that I wrote out as soon as I woke that I'm certain I'll use for at least a short story at some point, but I havn't written anything substantial for my novel. Tommy did help me choose a name for the main character, though, and that was an exceptional hurdle to bound over. Even with that accomplishment, I still feel utterly useless. I mean, yeah, I'm great with kids, but childcare is by no means an ideal profession for me. No idea why, but kids love me. I'm so against having children right now. I'm entirely too selfish at this point. I know I'll make an amazing mother, but until I meet whomever I'm to share my life with, it's a moot point to ponder. 

Finally caught up with Dorian Friday night when we all met up at Eat-N-Park. Funny how blunt he is. The first words he offered me weren't "Glad to see you, Gidge" or the obligatory "How've you been", but "So, what finally made you move back up north?" It's a question I've, understandably, gotten a lot since I moved back. I mean, I went back after Katrina, which means, as a Katrina survivor, I can survive anything, so why move now when things are finally getting better? I can say it's because I missed my friends, which I did. I can say it's because I need to be closer to my family, which, although it's been quite a hassle lately, is a perk I missed when being 1100 miles away. These, though, are half-truths. I moved back because I needed to feel alive again and not be snorting or smoking something to do so. Oh God, the drugs that were available in New Orleans! I needed to get away from that. As painful as it is, I need to grow up. I mean, I'll never grow up entirely. It's been psychologically proven that when one goes through certain traumas, part of their unconscious remains that age. Part of me will always be 5, 7, 20... As I grow older, I'll continue to splinter and become less of a whole. We all will. It's unavoidable. "Everything is... broken. Why can't you forget?" Our memories are extensive labyrinths of defense mechanisms and blotted scenes. I think that's why, as a whole, I think my time in New Orleans was unsuccessful. Everyone there was so exceptionally broken. I think that's why I want to go back so badly. I thrive in chaos and I'm drawn so forcefully to those who are shattered. I've done a lot of thinking about this compulsion and I don't believe it's because I want to fix anyone. You can't fix anyone. Not even yourself. All you can do is work with the pieces you have and rebuild. It's not like a puzzle, because to say that would imply that you'd look the same once all the pieces are put back together. It's more like those home and garden shows that have the designers go to yard sales and junk yards. They take the pieces and make something new with them. Add an old lamp post to a room, make a tire into a swing for a tree... I guess I just want to see what could be made from the shards. I thought that if I just loved enough the ones I gave my time to would improve. Would want to do something with what was left over and take what I was giving them and move on. If I just loved. enough. I failed. Love didn't. It never does. I did. Now I've come "home" with all my pieces in labled boxes. I'm giving them to my friends and family. What will they help me make with all this rubble? What can I make myself?

Current Mood: hopeful
Current Music: Bright Eyes - Noise Floor