So recently it’s been less about escaping perfection and more about escaping paradise.
I’m midway through a ( very bumpy) 9 hour flight home. I’ve been in the most amazing place you could imagine. But, as usual, what I took along with me along with the bikinis and flip flops was the overwhelming sense of claustrophobia.
I wrote a brief post a few days ago about being missing in pradise. It’s because I was. I was playing the perfect (ish) role of wife and mother. But within that, I hardly recognised myself. It’s like without the environment and the people of home, I can’t stay true to my real self. I get wrapped up and distracted, but instead of feeling free and relaxed. Like you should with your feet in the sand, I feel trapped and drowned in expectation and responsibility.
People will ask me if I had a lovely time, and I’ll smile and tell them it was wonderful and I never wanted to come home. But that will only be half true. I mean, I would have stayed forever have the circumstances and company been right. But actually what I will feel when I walk through my front door will be a sense of light relief. That I survived it, that life can back to normal, whatever that looks like these days.
I don’t want you to think that I am sad, or ungrateful, for certainly I’m pretty lucky in life. The location of my long awaited holiday was picture perfect. I drank cocktails and got a great tan, I made memories with the small people. It’s just that at the moment I’m struggling to put everything and everyone into the right places. Where they make sense, where my life makes sense.