Ken and I returned home a few days ago. We will be home for the entire winter, my worst season. We talked briefly about getting the Raven winterized, and my depression escalated even more than in the few days before we came home, as I dreaded returning home.
One of the fulltimers we met in Neskowin asked when we would be back. I wanted to say, “real soon,” but I know differently. She said that they were staying the winter in Neskowin, and I so longed to just hunker down, even though it was bracingly chilly, and the only thing I fear worse than drowning is the wind—and being so close to the ocean that you can hear the waves means you will get quite a bit of wind. I did not want to go home. I do not want to be home.
There is too much to do here. Too much stuff left undone, stuff left un-gone-through. There are too many bad memories here. Too much pain, emotional pain, family pain. It is too cold here. Too dark. This is not my home.
This is no longer my home, though my stuff is here. The Raven is my home. I know that now. I feel safe there. I feel welcome there. I feel happy there.
I entered in the front door of our duplex, and my only source of solace, other than my bed, is the light coming in the front door’s etched window. It beckons me to leave again, but I cannot.
I must deal with all that is left to do before Spring arrives.
But I must first deal with this nagging depression. I must find a way to make it through the winter with my sanity intact. I must find a way to continue to be me even though I cannot be free.