Sunday, May 17, 2009

To Leave or Die in Long Island?

That is the question. (And one of my favorite BTMI albums)
Except I don't want to leave- I've already left. It's just been entirely too long since I've been back. 
The last time I was there, the last time I was in Planeview, I was watching my 2nd home for the first 13 years of my life blur by from a car, crammed full of things from my grandparent's house we hadn't sold or thrown in a dumpster earlier that day. 
Everything was empty and gone, and it meant that they were completely gone. 
We didn't clear out and sell the house until about 6 months after my grand ma died, so I had been holding onto the belief that as long as I could go back to the house, they'd still be there in a way.
But suddenly, it was all gone. And I haven't seen it since. 
At least with Gallery Row, even though it was brutal for a while to pass by the skeleton of that store, my newest home, every day, it still helped me realize and gradually except that it was gone. 
But despite everything I've tried in the past 5 years, I haven't been able to go back to New York and find any of the closure that I need.
Which leads me to my unique episodes of depressions (depressisodes?), that are solely based on how I miss that house and that town and especially my grandparents.
So now I'm laying in our house's guest room, which my mom refers to as her "mom's room", even though she died before she ever got to live in it.
Laying on the bed, eating english peas, listening to Stacy Orrico, reflecting.
(I'm not mad, those things all have special meaning to this).
All this repression and occasional resurfacing of pain must be taking years off my life. Or rather adding them. I must be somewhere between 25-30 by now.
I'm not gonna get better, and it's not gonna go away until I deal with it. I need to stand in front of that house-I need to walk down that street-I need to go to the places I used to go with them-feel the grass-smell the air. 
I need to go home.
That was my first real home, where I felt nurtured and like I could do anything.
It set the script for the rest of my life actually: I used to try and direct my cousins in musicals for Thanksgiving, which we'd perform and horribly mangle for the family after dinner every year. Now all I want to do is sing and act and perform. 
Most importantly, they taught me how to make coffee.
So I'd get up every morning before the 2 of them, or whoever else was there, and make coffee. I'd always add some extra beans to be ground-whatever felt right to me, and they would always say "oh, Rachel makes the best coffee".
I think they would be the only members of my family who would be legitimately proud of me for trying to open my own coffee shop.
But I'll never know, will I?
Anyways, had to talk to something about this, and as usual, Chris was less than interested in my mental state, so I gravitated to the blog. The bloooooog. 
Anyways. I'm actually alright, getting it out on virtual paper helps. 
And it will be fixed soon enough. 
Either way, still a good night for a beer. Or some wine? I only have shitty wine. Ah, well. 
Athens in 2 dayzzz. Skankz

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