The Long Way Home
I have never been so happy to be home. I woke up before 5 a.m. this morning at a Heathrow airport hotel and had no idea where I was. I soon adjusted to my surroundings and felt a big wave of relief. I was in London, and flying home.
A taxi, a two hour plane ride, and an hour drive through the French countryside with a pit stop for groceries later, I am home.
After four months of insomnia, heartache and depression, I am in the one place where I can lay my head down and rest. Our quiet village and my comfortable bed are the only place I want to be.
I feel that up until now I've been chasing one high after the other. I've been an adrenaline junkie trying to fuel my sadness and exhaustion with socializing, drinks, coffee and distractions. I have almost stopped sleeping completely and in the past week have had aches and pains in my head, face and body that I've never experienced before. In London I started to feel like I might just collapse on the sidewalk. When I look into the mirror I see a distant version of myself.
Now it's time to sleep. To sit and be comfortable with myself and my feelings. To write and walk. To hydrate and nourish. To prepare for the next adventures.
I am so happy to be home.