I am an over-apologizer. Maybe I feel like I need to make up for the fact that I think I have not heard and will never hear a well-deserved apology for certain occurrences. Also, I hate confrontation, and, therefore, I give in to my opponent rather quickly. But mostly, I apologize because I feel the need to shoot myself down before the other person can. I tend to poke fun at my own expense. If you’ve ever been in a car with me, you will have heard me claim “Oh shit. I parked really badly. Am I in the lines? I’m crooked, aren’t I?” It needs to be said before somebody else can remark on my poor park job. This also may be a result of lingering PTSD from the time that I hit a parked car when I was 17 in my therapist’s parking lot, proceeded to drive away, and then had the cops call my house the subsequent day because someone had witnessed the entire scenario. I sobbed in the lobby of the police department downtown and got out of punishment. I was pretty shaken up, though, and so exists my self-conscious efforts at parking. Apologizing is kind of like that–a self-conscious tick. But at the same time, I almost always say it sincerely. Which is difficult for people to understand sometimes, I think. Arguments have ensued about it. Arguments that make me want to apologize for apologizing. But that’s just self-defeating.
It’s the middle of January and I am here in Boston. Just returned a few days ago from a 4-week stay at my parents’ back in Syracuse for the holidays. Today the sun tricked me into thinking it was warm outside, but when I left my apartment this morning, I was greeted by frigid 20-degree air. I saw it was cloudy back in Syracuse, though. Unsurprisingly. My younger sister spent the last 4 days here, but I saw her off yesterday afternoon, and returned to my 12×12 box of an apartment. And somehow it is the most I have felt like myself in weeks. Going back to my hometown, I thought maybe I could re-align and pull myself together a bit after tackling the new change this past autumn. It felt like home at first. Felt like the holidays as much as possible, which wasn’t much at all. Felt like maybe I was happier. But in truth, being back there kind of brought me down a bit. And I think it’s hard for me to confess because home is supposed to be your sanctuary. It was in ways; I’ve spent my entire life in that house, and I don’t think a person can really let go of that attachment, although I do believe it can loosen.
Life didn’t stop moving there because I left. Not that I expected it to by any means. It’s just an odd feeling to leave a place and return long enough to absorb all that is different. Relationships, places, the smells and sounds, the additions and losses. It can be a bit disheartening. And to be honest, my time spent in Syracuse fell a bit below my expectations. Even though I sometimes thought that maybe life would’ve been easier had I stayed. “I could just be doing this,” I often thought. “Making money working in retail–I could just work my way up! And I could keep exploring this city and keep spending time with the people I grew up with.” Yeah.
Yet Boston felt like coming home. My apartment–well, it’s mine. Riding the T. Lugging gallons of milk from blocks away because I have some kind of dairy addiction. Walking into the shops on Newbury Street even though I shouldn’t be spending money because my rent is too damn high and I don’t know if I will get my refund check in time to pay it on February 1. Drinking beer alone in my bed because I can and nobody can tell me that it’s inappropriate. Walking around the apartment in minimal clothing or with my hair looking like a bird’s nest because I don’t have to be presentable for anyone until I walk out the front door. Heading out to the Long Wharf or The Esplanade because I live in a beautiful city right on the water and I can go to it in the middle of January and it will still be absolutely lovely. Curling up in bed at 9 or 10 on any given night of the week to check a movie off of a list from a good friend. All of these things make me feel like myself. They have become familiar but not too much in a way that I don’t ever realize how lucky i am. I think about that often. I am here. And it’s scary as hell half the time. And maybe a bit lonely. But I am here. And it’s better than anywhere else I can be. And when I am here, I am unapologetic.
Untangle 