So much has happened in the short space of time between selling our land and now. And suddenly we're back in New Zealand and it somehow feels both like not-quite-coming-home and completely foreign. I think too much about what I've lost.
But small things like turning on the tap and having instant hot water. Hot showers. Heating. Constant electricity. Mountain views. A flushing toilet. Carpet on the floor. I have been taking these things for granted again and forgetting where we came from.
No more late nights around the campfire, eking out the last bit of warmth from the smoldering embers before rushing through the nightly chores, hoping to get it all done and then into bed before you lose feeling in your fingers and toes. Hearing the wind roar in the trees and then moments later, the tent threatening to collapse under the strength of it. Rain coming down sideways, the wind pushing it through the tent seams. And after that, heat and dust and smoke and never being fully clean. Midnight and still 35*C, all the windows closed tight to keep out the smoke and the fans only blowing scorching air around. The niggling fear in the back of your mind because you know how fast fire moves and you would have to leave things behind. We prepared as much as we could but it would never have been enough.
It sounds traumatic when I type it out, but it wasn't. The hardest part was the end of it. (And there I go again, back into those dark thoughts because I have lost so much and I can never get it back.)
We got a cozy house. My dad has a farm job. Things are... I won't say good. But, they aren't terrible. I should be grateful I still have some happiness left. Of better times, happy memories that I shouldn't allow to become tainted with grief. We had a good run back there. And now in the present day, Sparkie bouncing gleefully through the snow. She's never seen snow before and she loves it. I am surprised. And hares and lambs and beautiful birdsong, and we've landed in the one place in New Zealand that has a wallaby problem so it's a taste of the old days, although we have only seen one on the property so far.
We've been in this house for two weeks now. Unpacking my box and suitcase is a slow process. I have a handful of things out now - my dogs' trick title certificates, a drawing of Sparkie from a friend, my little Wolverine figurine. I don't know when I'll feel settled, when I'll feel safe. How many times now have I allowed myself to feel that way only to have it all taken off me again?
Writing continues to be an outlet, both here and in my fanfictions, a way to process my feelings and sort my thoughts into a coherent order. I'll never stop being open about my struggles. And I shouldn't feel like I have to. Depression is a real thing and a nasty thing, and something people shouldn't be ashamed of. Although, for the sake of my few loyal blog readers, I should make some attempt not to go too dark in my posts. (eg, my last post. oops)
