i belong in this milk and honeyed place, this gentle story i’ve crafted for myself, where no-one raises their voice except in giddiness and joy, and there’s just the right amount of sweet solitude that doesn’t slide into dangerous isolation. there are no hard edges or sharp corners in the places I belong, only soft warm blankets and smooth printed pages, and ink that flows on both palette and paper.
i belong beside the ocean, in the thunderous crash of saltwater on sand; a place to settle my thoughts when my powerful emotions frighten even myself. i inhale and exhale with the push and pull of the tide. it is not in the stillness of the sea that i belong, but in its deep and terrifying roar.
i belong inside the day-lit dreams that offer respite from the reality of pain and overwhelm, cradling the first of many hot teas in my favourite mug and imagining a different sort of day ahead in the moment before i swallow the cocktail of pills (in the way my grandad taught me when he witnessed the panic of my throat closing against them), that allow me to function.
i belong here in the country that is often but not always home, yet it and its people adopted me despite my yearning for the other country, for i belong there too. i belong in the house that frequently needs mending, beside the man who loves me no matter the cost, or squashed beneath the long-limbed teenage daughters who still want to hug and sit in my lap, and the oversized dog who thinks she belongs there too.
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