Go Home

Crying is like shitting. You feel it coming on all day, and strategically plan so that you can really let it out the second you get home. You get in your car, you’re halfway home and you hit a red light. A little squeaks out, and hey. That’s okay. 

You had too much coffee. You’re anxious–stressed. You’re going through life changes. You’re in an unfamiliar place. You’re missing home. You’re off schedule. You’re irregular. So a little came out in the car–so what. That’s fine. 

Who hasn’t wept in their car on the way home. Who hasn’t pulled up to their place, slammed it into park, and cried so hard they forgot how it felt to not be crying. Who hasn’t been overwhelmed with every wrong decision and inadequacy and shortcoming and failure all at once, looked at their steering wheel, and cried about it. 

It’s funniest when you have your “cheer up” playlist on, and  most worrisome when you have “Go Home” by Julien Baker set to repeat indefinitely. Cause man, when your body is just dirty clothes and you’re tired of washing your hands–it’s gonna be a long night in the car. 

If you’re reading this, I feel confident in saying you’re not the kind of person who should listen to this song. I ugly cry when I hear it, even when I am in a very good place. Maybe that’s because the song describes my life aged 18-22–but, I guess, whose life wasn’t Go Home, really–at some point? Who hasn’t wanted to go home in a way that wasn’t possible? Fuck it. Listen to it. You’ll be okay.  Listen to it and tell me what you think. 

Sad music scratches the knot in my chest where I feel most everything. Being around people I love, writing, making art, dancing, singing, walking on nice days, holding hands–those things loosen it. What tightens the knot–makes me hurt, makes it hard to breathe–is comparing myself at my worst moments to an idea of perfection embodied by a woman who is something I believe I’m not. What a waste of the person I am. 

After my eating disorder, I was left with a lot of lost time. After accepting that–grieving that–putting together a life I wanted, and starting to live it, I was met with the incredibly difficult task of continuing. Figuring out how to navigate anxiety and depression without something to numb me has proven to be.. challenging. I’m doing it, don’t get me wrong. But holy hell am I doing it clumsily. 

But, who doesn’t squeak out a little on the way to the bathroom. I’m putting it out there in case you need it, and so that maybe I’ll believe it too–I forgive my clumsiness as I figure out how to live with the trauma of destroying myself. I forgive myself for that. I love the person I am, even if I sit in my car and cry because I think that, at her core, she isn’t good. Because she is–she’s good.

I forgive myself for making mistakes and I give myself permission to learn from them. Nobody else can let me accept that I don’t always say and do the right thing. Only I, alone in my car, eyes wet and nose running, can decide to turn the car off, and go inside.

After all, I know you’re worried I’m gonna get scared again, but I won’t. You won’t. Let’s go home.