On Being A Reader and a Traveler

I just got home. Awesome, right?

Then why am I crying buckets down in my basement bedroom?

Maybe it's because the car ride was more of an emotional roller coaster.
Maybe it's because I didn't really have dinner.
Maybe it's because I have no friends down here.
Maybe it's because I am really, really, really tired.
Maybe it's because I feel so hugely overwhelmed.
Maybe it's because the weather sucked all day and looked miserable.
Maybe it's because I don't want to deal with anything.

While I was sitting here, wallowing, and freaking out at my lonely room which has really bare, creepy walls, which has been used and abused, which looks nothing like the room I left... I had this thought. And I think it's pretty valid, so I'm going to have to write it down. Here it is.

So I'm really good at adapting. When I have to move, or leave people behind, or go through a major change in my life, I can totally handle it. What I can't handle is coming back to places and realizing that they're totally different from when I left, realizing life has gone by without me. That's probably why I like Missouri so much. Nothing ever changes here, at least, nothing that has ever been important to me has ever changed here. My grandparents' house has pretty much stayed the same, their town has stayed the same, their ward is just like it was when I was eight, everything on the lake has stayed the same, and if it's changed, it's been unquestionably for the better, or it's been something that I've got no attachment to. That's not so much the case here at home, which is probably why, for the second time around, I've come home and been overwhelmed to the point of tears. Because I definitely cried when I got home in December. Big time. I mean, the way I feel right now, I would probably rather drive around forever and never come home.

Granted, all those maybe's up there probably have a lot to do with why I'm feeling this way, why I am such a ball of tears and frustration right now, because dealing with the future really freaks me out sometimes. Especially when I am tired. But anyways, back to the theory, and on to the title of this blog post: the reason I want to spend the rest of my life travelling and reading.

If you keep on travelling, you can't ever be attached to anything. So when you come back to a place and it's radically different from what it was like before, it can't phase you because hey, you don't really care, honestly and truly. As for reading, well, those worlds are always the same, no matter what. You might perceive them differently, but they're always going to be the same words, they're always going to create the same images that you initially created in your mind the first time you read, the characters are always going to be the same and they will never disappoint you because you always know what to expect.

This is why, while I'm so upset, I have grabbed Fablehaven off of my shelf. Hooray Fablehaven. Thanks for being consistent for me.

I'll probably read that until my eyes want to shut because I don't really want to lay awake in this freaky basement room all by myself before I fall asleep.

I hate being morose like this. It's not fun to think about, it's not fun to feel, and it's not fun for anybody else involved. Like, I don't even want to see people because I don't want to explain to them why I feel like such a ball of crap. I wish I had some freaking control over my stupid emotions. This isn't fun. Bleh.

This post is probably going to seem really dramatic and stupid in a couple of days, most likely. At least, I hope it's only a couple of days, because I can't handle much more of this. Bleh. I hate myself when I'm like this. And now I'm being a complainer. Gosh. I think I'll just go put on a diaper and suck a bottle of milk or something. This sucks. But I will admit I feel a little better now than I did when I started writing this. Hallelujah for the therapeutic nature of writing for pleasure.

Seriously. Hallelujah.