Back

Here I am. Home. After almost three years of living on the other side of the world, I am home. And I have no idea what that word even means.

The first week is covered in a thick fog of nitrious oxide. I am high and happy, on the verge of delirium. My old acquaintance Mister Jet-Lag refuses to loosen his grip on me all week. He keeps waking me up in the middle of the night, filling my brain with scattered thoughts and my stomach with random appetites, pulling my eyelids down in the middle of the day, preventing me from seeing clearly, from thinking straight.

I feel like a water balloon in a game of catch and throw between my friends. I spend every day in a different house, with a different person. My mouth opens and closes and words come out but I have no control over what I say, and come moonrise, I don't even remember the conversations I've had. Plans. People seem to want to know about my plans. I feel like a failure having to tell them again and again, that I have no plans. I try to make plans but I can't see through that damn fog in my brain. I give up. I give in.

Going from soft spring breezes into harsh autum storms takes its toll. I get sick. Mum takes me to the doctor. We slide down the escalator. Mum is so happy to have me back, she keeps hugging me and stares at me like I have come from outer space. We do not stop talking, regardless of the sandpaper in my throat. I sound like a chainsmoking seal. Alcoholic, also. I look like, well, an alcoholic chainsmoking seal. And I probably feel like one on the inside as well. Mum notices a lady behind us on the escalator. She can't help herself. "This is my daughter! She just came back from Australia! Three years! Long time, huh! I'm so happy to have her back!"
The lady doesn't really know what to say, and I burst out laughing, which quickly turns into some sort of epileptic fit, frothing, unable to breathe, capsicum-red-faced...
Someone to be proud of, mum!

Week one. Lost. Dazed. Confused.

Week two. Bring it on. Please, bring it on.