Waiting To Leave
It was only when I reached my late twenties that I realised I only really liked a lot of things "in theory".
As an extroverted introvert, social interactions can be fun but they drain me. See me over there, cracking stupid jokes and holding a conversation? I'm talking. I'm animated. I'm laughing. I'm going to need a day to recover.
I've been teetering on the edge of exhaustion since I was a pre-teen, and my favourite part of activities is to come up with excuses to not do them. I fall into the "I'm fine when I'm there" category of socialising, where everything up to excursion itself is pure dread. Leaving the house becomes a scientific study in how many mundane chores one can undertake rather than slipping on a coat and shutting the door. Being almost four years sober probably doesn't help, with no way to "pre-game" yourself into enthusiasm.
Standing in a busy venue, jostled by elbows and sloshed with lager, I stared up at one of my favourite bands and imagined about being at home with a coffee and a hot water bottle. I made a mental list of potential books to spend the next morning reading, in bed. The audience cheered, and I sighed dreamily. As they played through all the songs I had shuffled lovingly on my iPod over the years, I was distracted.
Waiting To Leave is me trying to be present. When I want to go home, I struggle to find the value in whatever I'm currently doing. But I don't want to spend another year in a distracted fugue; my brain essentually scrolling through its own phone as life goes on around me. I don't want to look up at a mountain or see a good tree and think "this is boring".Much like a gratitude list, I'm hoping that by reviewing and writing about events and activities in my life, I'll be forced to consider the merit in them.
Can you imagine if that sort of thing came naturally?