3:47 pm
I am not sure where my brain is, but it didn’t seem to make it from the check-in counter to the airplane. Wow, can someone say, brain dead? Brain fog? I have literally gone home again, and it’s like, I’ve gone through a wormhole and don’t know if I’m eight years younger or 800 years in the future, talking back to my present-day self in an alien tongue (or maybe through code, like in one of my fave movies, Interstellar).
(Just a brief recap: I moved to, we’ll just call it ‘the island’, in 2012, after a few months-long visits; during those visits, I fell in love, decided to get sober, and then spent the next five years, until the end of 2017, living and working and loving and being sober in this magical place. We decided it was time to leave around the end of 2017, early 2018, and since then, lived in two places on the mainland. We never felt at home after we left, so, when the stars aligned–our jobs worked out, our old house came back up for rent–we decided to move back. That happened this week, two days ago, actually!)
Wow.
So, I turned off all my computers on Tuesday afternoon after my work day, and I haven’t turned one on until right now. Yes, I have had my phone, and yes, I do “take notes on the day,” but in terms of processing my journey, nada. And, y’all know that if I haven’t written about it, it didn’t happen (haha). And, it’s been brewing to the point where, I was just angry last night–at the gods for making my dog have osteoarthritis, at myself for not being able to snap the eff out of it–so, here I am, starting to process the journey. And, wow, it’s sort of been a trip. Hopefully, the lessons I’ve been trying to practice over and over these past two years–living in the moment and letting go of the past–will serve me well.
To sum it up, we packed up our apartment and loaded a bunch of stuff into plastic containers, which my boo drove to a warehouse to be shipped (on the ocean!) on a palette; then, we cleared out, drove our car with luggage and dog to a port, where we dropped the car to be shipped (on the ocean!) via a car container (I think the cars are put into containers), then drove to our hotel, where we stayed the night so we could get up early for our flight the next day. While our dog lived to tell the tale, I don’t think we’ll ever fly her again. She is somewhere around 12 years old and seems to have gone from bad to worse in terms of mobility just in the past week. It has become so painful to watch her try to walk, to struggle at night panting, to seem to be utterly exhausted. She made the trip and the flight (we had to carry her through the airport), but by the time she stepped back into her old home, I’m not sure if she was glad to be home or just glad to be still, on a bed, not moving anymore.
Which is fine, because I have been a bit blown away. Like, this house is literally the house we lived in for five/six years here; this is the only place I’ve lived on island. And, it’s the house where it ALL began and happened and transpired: I got sober here, I fell in love here, I acquired dogs to love and care for again here, I committed to a freelance blogging and writing career here (all the early DDG posts, I wrote right here); I recovered here, in this house, in this ‘hood. Oh, and don’t forget, we survived and recovered from the twin cat-5 hurricanes, Irma and Maria, right here, in this very ‘hood.
I don’t quite know yet what to think or feel except, the view is still amazing, the people are still amazing, the island bush (an assortment of green shrubbery that protects the island, secures privacy, creates that magical sense of being hidden/tucked away on an island) is still amazing. It’s all still here, almost exactly like we left it, in fact–our furniture (we sold our entire household to our landlady, who rented it furnished in our absence), our neighbors/family (they even kept our spices for us for these past 22 months), the water and sun and plants and trees and rocks and jungle critters that nourished us for all those years.
What isn’t here is a young dog. What isn’t here is the younger version of me, the one who was BLOWN away by the newness of it all, as a newbie eight years ago. I mean, it’s all so emotionally charged for me because I moved here and let go of EVERYTHING I was doing and embraced a brand new life and lifestyle–I got sober, I fell in love, I got to have a house and dogs to take care of, I got nature and ocean and this place that was SO the opposite of the competitive urban jungles I had been dwelling in for almost 20 years. I was 37, so my time here then was also a time of great transition–my friends from those years, we went through the big choices of your late 30s: getting sober, committing to your partner, having a baby.
I’m 45 now, and much improved–I am recovered (mostly), so don’t need to spend hours, days, weeks, months, YEARS inside my pink cloud/sober bubble. I can go out and help others get sober, hey! Back then, it was an unnatural feat to leave the house, let alone do something huge, like write a story and get paid for it, or get a part-time job as a barista. Now, I’ve gotten my old self back–I have grown and I can’t ungrow, even if that means not necessarily feeling that same sense of excitement and achievement I once felt. I know I have to let that entire past go–the plus is that I get to cherish, appreciate, mine my past and make something of it…without having to relive the weird and awkward of my early sobriety (even though I miss that time, I really do).
Our dog is probably not here for much longer–I didn’t want to admit it this past year, but, at this point, seeing her struggle to even lift her body up on her back legs… It’s going to be really painful to let her go, too. The thing is, our dogs meant SO much to both my boo and myself; they weren’t just strays to rescue, just dogs to care for and walk and have fun beach days with–though, we did all that and more. We’ll both say, they saved our lives. And that is not an exaggeration. Both our dogs were my higher power; they both went through sobriety and recovery with me; they made me the person I am now.
With our other dog, it was too late by the time we got him to America–he was too sick to really enjoy the new place, the “world” off his little island rock that we wanted to show him. The entire nearly-two years we’ve been away, we’ve kept telling our other dog, you’ll go home again soon, girl, you’ll be home soon. Now, she is home, but…I think it might be a little bit too late for her, too (we can’t really take her on any of the walks that she knows and loves–or, at least knew and loved, as I’m not sure how dogs’ memories really work).
And then there’s me. And my boo. We’re not the same, and we have had our ups and downs these past two years. The truth is, we’ve both become bigger and better humans–and that is how it should be. I don’t want to roll back our evolution as people, of course not; what I miss is the naivity of even just a few years ago. We had no idea what to expect; I feel like I’ve aged a decade at least in these past two years.
I also have to admit that I am probably never going to recover that sense of awe, of newness, here; and, I have to admit that I sort of mourn for that; I grieve, still, for the girl I once was…while also feeling relieved that I am no longer in that place of extreme sensitivity and vulnerability. So weird, and so conflicted.
I’m not sure how I’m going to fare here, socially–I am hoping for the best, or at least, better than my first whirl. When I lived here before, I came as an active alcoholic, so, not only did it takes years to become social, but I felt like my experience had become defined by who I was before and while getting sober. At least now, I can leave all that angst and struggle and baggage behind, and approach my life here as a “normal” person… I mean, I do feel a LOT more confident and social and able to be social and to form and nurture relationships now than I did then. The question is, will I want to or will I fall back into old habits?
Eh, it’s all good, really. Aside from our dog, things are already going to be smoother (we both have friends already, we both have secure jobs that pay well, um, I am already sober!). So, what I say to my overactive mind is, let it work out, let it transpire, and think the thoughts but let them go. Let them ooze out like pus so your brain can heal and start working again. 🙂
Drunky Drunk Girl 