Lost my home

I've been feeling very depressed and disoriented since about Thanksgiving. Having trouble getting work done, etc.

I think a bunch of stuff is piling up on me. One (which deserves a whole blog entry of its own) is that my dear friend J is departing for the Southern Hemisphere in about a month (and has been very busy getting ready for the move). Another, though, is that I lost my home.

My parents moved into their "new" home in suburban Washington DC when I was a senior in high school. The house was a split-level, built to the exact standards of 1960s suburban taste (formica, vivid colors, and a patio). I never quite loved it, but it was there. During my college days I tried to become independent, and there was a time during the 1980s when I didn't get to Washington for quite a number of years. Finally, though, I decided about 1990, that these were my parents, this was my ancestral home, and I should be visiting more often.

When I divorced and realized that I was going to be spending every Mansfield major holiday alone, I began to make a LOT of trips to Washington. When I could manage it, I went for Thanksgiving, Christmas, Spring Break, and a hunk of time in the summer. It was usually about six or eight weeks a year. After Dad died, I found myself doing plumbing, trimming hedges, putting up Christmas lights, and generally being at home there. Washington is where I can go to the theater, buy a fountain pen, or find a really good pair of shoes. If I barbecue something, I don't have to eat it all myself. The restaurants are not all fast-food franchise. Fresh fish has actually seen the water some time in the last fortnight.

As a side note, my friends in Mansfield have wondered why my apartment here is usually such a shambles. It's because I never moved in. I never really lived here: home was in Washington, and I sleep here while I work in Ohio.

Well, all that has changed now. A four-bedroom house was just too much for Mom, and even though she protested bitterly, I think she's better off in the seniors' apartment. An astonishing amount of her furniture actually fits into that two-bedroom apartment, so there's a place for me to sleep and even a second bathroom for me. But it just isn't home. I think that will hit me when I go down there for Easter.

Much, of course, will be the same. I'll take Mom to her church for Easter Sunday. She'll probably have an Easter lily to bring home (and complain about). She says she never gets out any more now that she can't drive, so I'll haul her around to a couple of shopping malls. But it will be difficult.

At least now I know what's facing me, and I often feel that the demons are less of a problem when I know their names.