This week, homesickness returned. It's never fully and completely gone, but since those first few home-sick months it has retreated to a low buzz in the background, entirely manageable and mostly ignorable. Until it comes back. And when it does come back, it hits me in the chest and knocks the air out of me, leaving me feeling incomplete and lost in this foreign life of mine. Longing for familiar voices, food, friends.
So I mope around the house, with Jeremy reminding me that it's all entirely hormonal (it's been 'that' time of the month afterall). 'That doesn't matter'. I say. 'I still feel crap'. 'But it's got to help to know it's not real, it's not forever', is his point. It's a valid point.
But real or hormone fueled, I hate this feeling. It makes me feel insubstantial, awkward, unwilling to be in a group of people that are not MY people, because although I do have some people here, I do not have a gaggle of them.
The homesickness has retreated again, back to its normal level of buzz. But I am left a little startled by how quickly it swept in, scared by the realisation that it is never far away - always at striking distance.
But then I suppose I knew that already.
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