I feel like singing songs of exile and of home.

February 24, 2013

We’ve discussed this before, haven’t we? Missing people. I’m pretty sure I’ve told you, at least a few of you, that I don’t miss people. It mostly holds true; when people leave, I don’t miss them particularly. I’m still not sure why.*

In this instance, however, it is massively untrue. I’ve discovered that when you all up and leave me, or to put it perhaps the correct way around, when I up and leave (although the effect is the same) I miss you all. It is oddly disorienting. And it isn’t necessarily flattering for either you or me because it comes from a place of self-preservation and essentially, selfishness. But we are selfish creatures, humans. And I never came here to tell you I was anything but deeply flawed. I’m just here to talk. Mostly about myself. Funny, that.


What I miss most, among the many things I miss (and there’s more than I expected; the old familiarity of streets, the mental map of places that are good and places to play, the ability to be anywhere and know that it is home-), is the security of people who love me. Sure, I miss having a deck of friends to call, should the situation arise where I might need them, to frolic or to celebrate or merely to stroll down the waterfront and enjoy the day or explore the markets or go see theatre. Takes time to build up such a group of people with similar interests. But I can round up a bunch of acquaintances in a pinch and do the same thing, if not perhaps with familiar results. Company is not so much the issue.

This is the issue: I miss feeling safe and protected because I know I am loved. I miss having friends who love me. I have friends here who like me, and acquaintances who probably like me, which is all very well and good, but you lot, I miss you lot. I miss being with people who know me deeply and care about me deeply. I miss being able to come off my best behaviour, or my second-best behaviour, or, uh, let’s just go with ‘behaviour’, and just- be, without worrying about what you’ll think or whether you’ll misinterpret my intentions or how you’ll judge me. Because I know how you’ll judge me. (Mostly.) I miss the familiarity of your judgements because I know your judgements are in my favour because I know you are fond of me, and I know I am safe, and I know I am loved, and that I am free to be however I want to be because you know me, you know the messy state of the inside of my head and the inside of myself (mostly) and you’re still here. I don’t have to be afraid. I don’t have to be afraid. And I am always afraid.


I told you this was selfish. How do you feel, knowing that you’ve now been relegated to the status of emotional security blanket? (I love you all, really I do (mostly); meat and salt, toddlers with toy giraffes, and I won’t cry without my blankie because I’m a big girl so instead I’ll sit small in the foyer of a church that is also a movie theatre and cling to my takeaway cup of weak tea and wish, wish you were with me-)

* Although I’m beginning to think it has something to do with attachment styles. And selfishness. And fear. But everything has to do with fear, at the bottom of things.

2 Responses to “I feel like singing songs of exile and of home.”

  1. anon Says:

    Would that everyone had such friends!

    • marcherry Says:

      I’ll be your friend!

      [edit: after a moment’s reflection, I realised that might not have been the intention of your comment. sorry, yes! I agree. it would be lovely if everyone had friends like that. (my offer still stands, though.)]

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