I arrived home midday, running on zero sleep after around 24 hours of travelling, as I simply can’t snooze on public transport (taxi, plane and a train was the journey if we want to get specific). On arrival, I put my incredibly heavy bag (I basically had a large gym bag, not a suitcase) in my room which my Mum had lovingly done up for me.
Now I don’t know about you but I personally don’t want three – large – pictures of myself staring back at me from my dressing table, my Mum had essentially built a shrine to myself in my room. I took down two and kept the graduation picture so as not to hurt too many feelings. The rest of my room was a single bed and a rail for my clothes, but she had lovingly put up fairy lights around my door which was a heartwarming ‘Welcome Home’ touch. This is a room I have lived in many years of my life, starting off at around the age of thirteen I begged my Mum to paint it silver, I was going through an Andy Warhol phase and wanted my small room to be my version of Studio 54. She, of course, said no, so we settled on allowing me to draw on the walls – now, I’m not quite sure how we settled on that decision but I think we both realised at this point silver would have been a better option. My friends drew left, right and centre over my teenage years until it was ruined by what teenage boys do best, penises.
I’ve gone through relationships and break-ups in this room, I’ve gone through (unfortunate) emo phases and the Jack Wills epidemic and I’ve watched the Edinburgh tram system not exist, be built and run all from my bedroom window. What I’m trying to say is, I felt like I had just slipped back into the life I had before New York almost instantly, and I really didn’t like it.
I joined my Mum and her husband in the living room and sat on my laptop. This was odd for them because the norm is for me to confine myself to my room but no, I had to be around people at all times.
The next few days were a bit of a blur, I kept waking up at 1pm even though my norm is 7am- I think exhaustion just hit me like a brick wall. I was in a bit of a dream state not really knowing what to do with myself.
Friday came and my reunion with my home friends was upon us, I didn’t want to drink too much because I had done nothing but that for the past year, so we headed out for dinner and a catch-up. We laughed, got merry and more and more people arrived for me to hug and tell them how much I missed them – it’s so nice to see a familiar face again.
A few glasses of wine turned into bottles and instead of going home we ended up at what can only be described as the weirdest gathering of people at the oddest location. There were my friends, then there was a bunch of arty folk, who liked to tell you how arty they were, and then who knows who else came. The location was an interior designers house, or was it an architect? Anyway, their bath was hidden in a cupboard or something which we found incredibly interesting at the time, I’m unsure due to the wine haze.
Next thing I know I’m crying on the patio with a glass of wine in hand, my friend takes my phone off me and orders an uber (always a sign of a good friend), I continue to ball my eyes out in the back of the Uber and it continued to when I got home. I don’t remember what I was crying about, and don’t particularly want to, but I laugh when thinking about it because it was proper toddler sobs. This was at 6am, I never survive the night out until 6am. Let’s just say, wine consumption and high emotions do not mix (and neither does eyeliner).
I was very very sick.
I didn’t move from my bed that Saturday, it quite frankly would not have been possible.
On Sunday, my Dad and his partner were coming back from a trip they took to Newcastle and they wanted me to meet them at the station for a quick catch up since I was home. As much as I was so excited to see them both my travels were the last thing I wanted to talk about.
It’s so weird because you have so much to tell, but I wasn’t quite ready to talk about it for some reason and the only people who I felt like I could talk about it with were the people who experienced it with me. It’s not like I had a terrible time, I had the time of my life, but it’s also not just a holiday it was a year and that’s a lot to consume.
Anyway, I had a wonderful time with my Dad and I am very grateful for my Mum for taking me in, and I know this blog post isn’t as happy go lucky as previous ones – but we all have bad days and these were mine.
Next times a little more positive, promise.
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