Dorothy

Sat in the arms of my Father's chair, it's probably the only time of year that i'll eat trifle for breakfast because I couldn't quite fit it in the day before and it so persistently played on my mind.

I'm sighing a huge sigh of relief that the day is over. I long for the day I can make Christmas my own, selfishly.

Coming home has made me realize how trapped I felt here, how claustrophobic I felt in this, my parent's house. My bed doesn't feel my own. It's cold and my room is acquiring more and more of my Mum's things. I love my parents dearly, don't get me wrong but this is not my home. But wait... I don't currently have a home. But kinda like when I had my bag stolen, it feels liberating. I know I can still be every ounce the person I am and not have a dwelling to call a home.

I'm glad that I made this journey for the clearing of the air and a chance to talk. A walk in the park yesterday was my favourite part of Christmas day. My Dad coming to wake me up. My Mum making jokes. And then the walk, a time to discuss everyone's daily life, to really say how we feel.

This has to be the last time i come here though. I can't breathe. I've taken so much criticism. I've tried to tolerate, tried to let go, tried to argue back. But emotion consumes me. Sadness swallows me.

I don't like your hair. You need to put weight on. You need to produce children for me to enjoy! Your yoga isn't normal!!

It's so much easier in my bubble.

Tap. Tap.