... have you ever fallen asleep at night dreaming desperately for something? It's not uncommon, I'm sure you have at one point or another. Dreaming for a snow day. Dreaming for an extension on that essay, or dreaming that that special person would finally stop and talk to you.
And when that one thing you've fallen asleep at night dreaming for for days and days on end comes true, theoretically you would be in a state of utmost bliss, would you not? That's the only logical response...
I've been dreaming for the last three weeks of coming home from the hospital. To be without an IV in my arm, and to be able to sleep without wires attached to me from everywhere. To be able to shower alone, and go to the washroom without having to call for help.
And as of today, exactly three weeks after I was admitted into the hospital, I was released. Completely ecstatic, I went outside to take the first breath of fresh air that wasn't scheduled. And I enjoyed it. It's possible that I just enjoyed the idea of 'home' more than the physical existence of it, however.
I couldn't believe the state of things when I walked into my basement suite. First, my roommate's cat Yoda came to greet me. Having not seen him in three weeks, I was ecstatic, but also exhausted. Before greeting him, or my roommate, or anything else I went to my room to put my things away. Everything in my room was just as I'd left it. And in it's creative clutter, it was beautiful to me. My overcrowded bookshelves, the clean laundry sprawled over a table in the corner, the desk covered haphazardly in papers which looked about to fall off the edge. It was everything I'd missed.
When I turned around to greet my roommate, I still saw nothing. She hugged me so long I wondered if I'd ever get that half an hour of my life back. But I missed her, so I was content. Heading into the rest of the apartment, however, I couldn't hide from it anymore. Blue gunk was stained into the carpet, toilet paper trailed down the hall. I didn't dare look into the bathroom, the smell was enough to make me ill. A broom blocked entry to the kitchen, which had substances of all sorts strewn across the floor, and when I stepped in, I couldn't believe that there were actually liquids molding in cups.
I could have dealt with most of it, really. It was an immediate stress... but I could've dealt. My roommate explained that she had been working all the time, so she didn't have time to clean up. Which was understandable to an extent, but not to the extent of the shape of our suite.
I eventually just went to curl up in my sanctuary, to pretend I hadn't seen anything I'd just seen. I let my cats come curl up with me, having missed them rather desperately and for a while... I was at peace. My roommate decided to inform me that her ex-boyfriend (the one who had been living with, dating and sleeping with his 'ex-girlfriend' during the same time they were going out) would be coming over tonight. I never liked this guy. I'm not going into details, just know he's an asshole, and had no right being inside my house. She always knew it made me uncomfortable, I would hide in my room until he left, and yet she always brought him over.
So obviously there was utmost joy in me when I heard he was coming, hoorah hoorah. (Oh look, he's here. >> Great.) And then the beloved people upstairs came home, as always arguing and screaming at one another. I don't know what I'd missed about being home. I missed my room. I missed my cats. I missed my freedom. The rest of it...?
My roommate came home from her two hour shift at work bitching and swearing. First that she hated the 'fucking' cats, and that they better get the fuck out of her way, or else. And then stormed into my room, dropped food on my bed and declared it mine, before stalking off swearing up a storm. When she returned from her post-work session, she informed me that we were getting rid of the cats. No questions. Three days, and she was taking them to the SPCA. That was it. They were gone. She's always hated cats... but Yoda was hers before I even moved in, and she got Kenobi as a gift for me for when I moved out. When I got him, he was small enough to fit in two hands, and now he's nearly full-grown. He's my baby. I love him so very much. And it utterly breaks my heart that she's getting rid of them without question. Because, as she says, we can't afford to keep them. She's getting rid of her snake, as well.
I'm glad she finds animals so disposable, you know? The fact that these are living beings doesn't stop her from throwing them across the house, or locking them in the bathroom when she doesn't want to deal with them. But she doesn't take into account how much I do love them. For everything they are. They're like my children... and now I'm losing them, just like I'm losing everything else. And I have no say in the matter. She won't even let me put a word in on it. She then proceeds to bitch that she'll be working twelve hour shifts, like my getting sick was completely on purpose, and the fact that the full-time waitress at her part-time job got into a car accident and isn't allowed to work is my fault, never mind that she's already working full-time at my job as well (though not in my shift at all), which is also somehow my fault.
... so does anyone wanna explain to me why I came home? Here I'm lucky if I eat. I have to put up with strange men that make me uncomfortable being in my house. I have to listen to the drug addict and his psychotic girlfriend screaming upstairs, banging doors at all hours. I just want so desperately to be free of all of it. I want my kitten, damnit. I don't want to give him up. I want to go home somewhere that I feel safe, welcome, and loved. Somewhere clean. Somewhere with food in the cupboards.
I want to be in a real home. And somehow, the hospital felt more like home than where I am now.
It just doesn't seem right.
Stupid wishes.