I know we’ve been over this ad nauseum, but it never ceases to amaze me how where I am can change who I am. Or at least who I feel like I am. The freeways from the airport through Tempe, then taking Rural up to Scottsdale. The smells of my father’s house. The people in the grocery store. They look so different from the people in the grocery stores in Seattle. Blonder and thinner and taller. Faces more angular, polygons of lips and cheeks and chins and eyebrows. Faces are rounder in Seattle; their edges curve. The songs they play on the radio here are different. They’re the songs they play on the radio in Arizona. They’re the songs your friends played in the car when you were driving in a pick-up to shoot rifles at the cactus or you were driving in a Beemer to get wasted out in Old Town or you were driving in a Hummer to drop acid at a docker. They’re the songs we play in Arizona. They don’t play them on the radio in Seattle.
I’m still sick, and I’m having trouble putting together a cohesive thought.
But I just have to say that I’ve been here for less than two hours, I haven’t seen a single person, and I’m already stressed out. Like I swear the worst part about having divorced parents is trying to make time to see both of them when you come home. And trying to see all your friends on top of that. I know it’s something I should be looking forward to, but I just end up completely stressing out, certain that I’m going to let someone down, and that, worst of all, I will not be taking care of myself at all. I think that’s a big part of it. For some reason, in Seattle, far away from my family and my past, I’m really good at putting myself and my needs first. But plop me down in Scottsdale and all I can think about is what everyone else wants from me and how I can keep from disappointing anyone. The things I need to do to take care of myself — the things I know to be effective — fall by the wayside.
I dunno.
I need to sleep. I’m praying this feels more manageable in the morning.
