Sometimes the best cure for whatever’s ailing you is to simply come home. Never has this been made clearer to me than right now, in this moment. The past few days in New York seemed to go by in a lonely blur, with friends too busy with work events to hang out and a stomach virus relegating me to my apartment for too many hours at a time.
I’m an introvert at heart, whose ability to be alone with myself can quickly become problematic—allowing my self-talk to flare into negative overdrive. I know this, and yet, sometimes, quiet alone time just feels safest, so I sink into it easily, deluding myself about any potential consequences. But when it inevitably reaches it’s dangerous peak, I get a hankering for the loved ones who pull me out of myself. So, seeking that solace, I came home.
I haven’t even been here for twenty-four hours and already it feels as if someone pulled a bunch of existentially unstable bricks off my shoulders. I crawled into my little sister’s bed the minute I arrived, with the other one in tow, as we talked aimlessly about prom hairstyles for the former, and the latter’s inability to cover her mouth when she coughed (a point of GREAT contention).
Nothing serious to discuss, just happy, mindless chatter, mixed in with a little sister-to-sister teasing. So comfortable and so easy, an eternal Band-Aid that I too often forget exists.
Even the raging migraine I woke up with couldn’t fully destroy the peace, as my stepmom rescued me with pitch black coffee and a delicious fresh peach, cut up into bits for my regressing-to-childhood self. Sometimes this simple treatment feels like the ultimate luxury, one that we should all get to indulge in from time to time.
I’m once again reminded of how safe and warm one’s home can feel—even if that home is not a specific place, but rather, an arrangement of certain people and the way they know you all too well but love you anyway. I begin to soften up on myself simply because of that obvious love: you can eat that, you can relax, don’t be so hard on yourself.
Here’s a group of people where pretense is unnecessary—people I can moan to dramatically about how this migraine is surely going to kill me, and they’ll roll their eyes…but rub my back, too. And sometimes that comfort is all it takes to shake you out of a shitty place—a little unmitigated love, coffee, cereal, and the freshest peach: the beautifully bland comforts of home.