I'm home already. Boyfriend had family business to take care of here, so we flew up together yesterday. I haven't even been home for 24 hours yet. The weird (and sad) thing is, I feel miserable.
I feel really guilty saying that, and perhaps I'm exaggerating. Okay, so I'm not ripping my hair out of my head. But I did find myself wondering where I could go today - a restaurant, a library, a Starbucks - to get the fuck out of my house. I have also debated the merits of remaining here for two weeks so that I can attend Kid Sisters' birthday party, even though that shouldn't be an issue because I already promised I'd stay for it. I'm a terrible daughter and sister who ought to be turned out of the house in her petticoats.
Ironically, if anyone in my family read my blog, or knew I felt this way, they would be puzzled as to why. I am also puzzled as to why. Sure, there's usually a mess (Mother works full-time, there are three children under the age of five, and Sister doesn't believe in cleaning. Oh, and I fled the state.), and whether people are fighting or getting along swimmingly there is still a commotion, simply because of the number of people here. Maybe I have a patience problem, but I feel so utterly depressed when I am in this house. I loved seeing everyone when we arrived yesterday, but I am just dying to go back. It's not like the South is some kind of utopia, but it's just far enough and quiet enough to appear that way to me.
I love everyone in this house dearly, but... pray for me.