On coming home

I thought I suffered from Seasonal Affective Disorder.  And maybe I do.  I am not so happy in cold weather and feel a definite malaise.  

But I realise I suffer from something else too.  

The Post Vacation Blues.  

The oddness is that I love coming home after a vacation.  Except for the mice who have taken over my kitchen drawer, everything at home is lovely.  My dogs are cool, my sons are amazing, the broccoli in my garden is in bloom.  I have nothing to complain about, work is good, I have money thank the sweet goddesses and my Barista still has a crush on me.

But I feel blue.  And every time I go away, even when I’m ready to come home, I feel this.  I should recognise it by now; I never do.  Doesn’t matter if it’s a weekend or a few weeks.  Doesn’t matter if it’s a solo trip or a trip with a bunch of incredible friends, which this one was.  

The blues are real and they’re horrible.

Things spiced up a little today.  The sun came out and it’s not so miserable. I went to an exercise class, been avoiding that, walked around a colourful market, been avoiding that, and met a new dog. Haven’t been avoiding that.  It’s not as cold as it’s been and I’m trying to find all the positives and OH GOD I’M A MISERY AND I JUST CAN’T HELP IT.

Travelling makes me feel things.  This trip, up north in Kosi Bay, made me feel enormous gratitude, intense love and a giant appreciation for good friends, for the sisterhood of women, and for the immense beauty of nature.  Stars, wide open spaces, crystal clear water, naked swims, wildflowers, birds and bees and monkeys and sunrises and meaningful conversations and incredible sunsets and oh no wonder it’s horrible coming home.

I mentioned how I was feeling to my Barista.

‘ I think I’m going to book The Camino,’ I told him.  ‘Take off two months, and just go.  Solo.’

He looked at me.  He knows me.  He knows my struggle.

‘Don’t do it,’ he said.  ‘You’re the kind of person who’ll stay on the trail for years.’

‘Sounds perfect,’ I replied.  

And I mean it.  My feet are itchy.

I’m looking into the Camino.

March, 2020.  FOR A VERY LONG TIME.

I can feel my Blues lifting already.

Kind of.

Almost.

Not quite.

7 thoughts on “On coming home

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