Moving out, moving back, moving on?

So (again) I’ve moved back to my mum’s old house, and it’s brought up new emotions and fears. The fear I think is going back to feeling miserable, exactly how I felt last time I lived here, when she died. This house has a power over me. Maybe it will make me feel like a child again, as I was when I grew up here, except this time without a mum. This house holds so many memories, the most recent being the worst. I’m sitting in the room where my mum spent the last few months of her life, except everything is stripped out, everything but the bad memories. They hang around like a spirit, the house is haunted by them, no matter how much clearing out and painting I’ll never be rid of them. Maybe that’s why I want to sell the house so much, I don’t want these bad memories anymore, I’ve had enough. I’m looking forward to the day when I have my own home, where I can unpack all my mum’s things and have them in my house without all the darkness.

The flat I have been living in for the last year has been some kind of holiday home, a respite from misery. It felt, for most of it, like a sanctuary, a safe place to be, and a fun place to be, with many friends around me. I was worried about leaving, feeling isolated back in North London away from this, and the kind of community feeling the flat and area gave me. But I was forgetting I have all my (remaining) family up here and really good old friends I regret I haven’t given much time too recently, too obsessed by my own crap really.

I felt the urge to write this evening, to make a bit more sense of all the jumble going around. I’ve just unpacked all the boxes in my room so perhaps I felt it was time to unpack my head. It’s helped.

How funny that, completely unplanned, the last thing in my old room were dying red Tulips.