simple words on a page

I have this postcard that I picked up in a cafe in London.

Apparently, it's going to be ok.

I laughed when I saw it and vowed to send it to people I knew.

Instead, it sits here and reminds me.

Appropriately fitting right now, I tell myself this affirmation often.

The housing will sort itself out, as will work.

You will stop feeling helpless at some point in the next few weeks.

It's going to be ok.

Despite the papered reassurance, my brain isn't convinced.

Perhaps if I stare it just a little longer... it will eventually sink in.

day eighteen

crying in the shower after such confusion.

a lovely afternoon with friends to replace the argument with a sister,

an evening returning, a serious conversation and it doesn't take much for me to tick.

already feeling so foreign in this house, i now feel like some sort of failure.

teaching's not good enough and no point doing masters...

apparently it's time for a career change.

trying to find my feet in this country and this house,

now is not the time to suggest uprooting the only stability i have.

the need for them to be happy for me, that i am happy in my life.

isn't that what it is all about?

retreating to bed with a rug around me,

i hope it will protect me from further thoughts of disappointment.

these walls that make a house

These walls don't make a home because you don't allow it to be.

Your questions and deadlines,

your biased and insincere attitude make me feel like a stranger in my own room.

The silence and the shuffling.

The lies and fake smiles.

I clearly mean nothing to you.

Yet if anyone asks you would conveniently tell them that I'm great,

because it suits you to 'fit the appearance'.

I feel like I can never do or say the right thing,

that I am huge intrusion to your peaceful paired existence.

And yet, despite all this... your hostility and your hesitant nature to care about someone other then your blood, I would forgive you and move on if you just gave a shit.

If you ever asked a genuine question and waited to hear the answer.

If you ever responded to my text messages about being home for dinner.

If you ever did anything that resembled motherly affection - and consistently,

just not when it suited you.

Instead I sit quietly in my room and not get spoken to.

I get nervous about whether I am home for dinner or not.

I apologise for getting in the way, in a space that should be my own.

I feel more alone when you are here then when I am literally, on my own.

I wait patiently for you to show some sort of real honesty with me.

So I will wait... continue to wait.

For something that I know, may never really come.

Day Six

Day six and I am back at school.

The same school that I physically left two years ago,

the same school that emotionally and mentally I seem to still have left now.

Children listen and respond with kindness,

and I find myself giggling with confusion.

They are clicky with each other and invasive in the teachers lives,

yet I find that annoying rather then endearing.

I walk around, almost feeling like I have gone backwards in so many ways.

London... when did that happen?

I changed... so what.

Day six and I am confused about who I am as a teacher and what I am doing at this place.

Day 2

Day two and already I feel displaced.

It all seems so normal, so routine.

It's like I never left.

Yet this funny space in my heart feels... soft. And a little weak.

It's the part that already misses the laughter and madness; the chaos that is London.

Perfectly normal and no doubt lingering -

I long for that teleport machine to take me back for a cuddle and a wine...

then back here to the routine.

To the comfort of being at home:

just after I get the fix I need to stop the confusion.