400 Days of Exile: Day 1

This is it.

It's over.

I'm actually back here.

After 4 years, 7 months, 5 days, and give or take a few hours... I am back in the suburbs.

[picture to come as soon as I am able to remember to take a picture while the sun is still up]

I'll admit, this doesn't look like any form of hell pictured on traditional or even nontraditional media and I would be exaggerating for dramatic effect by describing it as my own personal hell. If anything, that's grossly unfair to my mother and father who have worked very hard to build a beautiful home and they really have done a wonderful job in doing it.

However, I do not want to be here.

There are layers upon layers of reasons that fall behind that statement - various explanations for why it feels so strange and odd to be back somewhere I had spent eight years living, Some are very particular to me, but some I'm sure any returning college student can relate to.

I have 400 days to explore the ebbs and flows of the struggle of feeling like an adult and sleeping in my childhood bedroom again; feeling pathetically similar to my former high school classmates who never left our hometown and never made a new life; feeling like I'm being thrust into a high school relationship with my boyfriend of almost three years who had basically been living with me up to this point; and, most excruciatingly, feeling the pang of longing to be back in the city.

Chicago is where I built myself up after so many people here tried to pull me down in my youth. It was where I became who I am today, where I tried and failed to be the person I thought I was or wanted to be, demolished her, and started learning who was really hiding inside.

The person I found is strong and incredible and I would be lying if I said I wasn't a little bit obsessed with her. And she's facing her biggest challenge yet: trying to translate the woman she's become into a context of her life that was never particularly kind to her.

Being back here brings back the memories of old boyfriends and old friends - my old mix CDs are still littered in the various crevices of the car I hadn't needed in Chicago and their songs play like the soundtrack of my adolescence - they are even marked, so kindly, with the month and years my teenage self compiled them - so self assured as to the importance of the music she listened to.

But, maybe it won't be so bad. None of those memories hurt anymore - almost none of them even make me angry. But, only time will tell.

Until tomorrow,

Little Tornado