Flying back home Saturday was like…a major shock to the system. It did not go well.
Before we even left for the airport, I was having extreme anxiety about going home and reintegrating with my own real life. Where my kids are difficult sometimes and my parents are…have opinions…I was like, just…really not okay.
Both of the flights we took traveling from Orlando back home were…well, they were my own personal hell. On the first flight, the 2.5 hour flight, there was a little girl who was clearly sick sitting directly behind me. A wet, hacking cough and runny nose. I didn’t have a mask with me, and I wanted to die. So I sat like this for a while, and didn’t even care. I was in the window seat and my parents were in the row next to me, so no one could see me anyway.
Luckily, she ended up sleeping for most of the flight, so I felt a lot better. Can’t cough if you’re sleeping! I was unhappy about the situation, but figured it wasn’t too bad because she did sleep for most of it.
The second flight was worse. It’s only about a 25 minute flight, but now, the person sitting directly next to me was coughing. Obviously I couldn’t be so rude as to breathe within my shirt, as I was on the aisle now and not the window, and she was sitting next to me. So I angled by body completely away, and held my breath for the majority of the flight. Cool.
Got off that plane and headed to baggage claim, where I had a completely internalized panic attack about the entire situation.
I *may or may not* be a germaphobe, and I also have 3 special needs kids. I wanted to bring them back souvenirs. Not the fucking plague.
It was around 6:30pm when we got home. It was a day filled with anxiety and stress and worry, and all I wanted to do when I got home was take a shower and burn all my clothes.
I did that, well, I showered and did laundry, and the stress didn’t go away. I was edgy and probably a little rude to my husband and just, I wasn’t in a fun or loving mood. At all.
It didn’t help that I was expecting the house to be clean, and most of it was, but my bedroom was a shit show and was clearly not the priority of the week at all. It just felt like a punch in the gut. I don’t know. I just wanted to come home and everything be perfect and beautiful and…not a disaster. Not another thing added to my plate.
Honestly, this shouldn’t come as a shock. I never do well transitioning back home. Ever. It always takes me a day or so to adjust. And that’s exactly what happened.
I was fine a few hours later, after I did absolutely everything possible to eliminate the germs from within me (hello netti pot, copper wand, zicam and elderberry!).
The next day, Sunday, was fucking miserable. My oldest son, who I believe shares quite a lot of traits with me, was a shit show.
Honestly, I believe it’s possibly as simple as he doesn’t transition well either? Maybe? But us coming home was hard for him, I think. it was a lot all at once. We brought lots of gifts back, but nothing was good enough and it was just a day or whining and crying and being ungrateful and upset. Even about having pizza for dinner. Ugh!
All I can say, is thank fucking god I have therapy tonight. Because there was a ton of things that came up that I need to dive head first into. It was an absolutely amazing time being away. But coming home was hard. I knew it would be, I wasn’t surprised.
The highlight was my 4 year old, who smothered me in I love yous and hugs and kisses and I miss yous. It made me feel loved and appreciated and wanted.
And he was so grateful for all of his “Spidey” souvenirs.
Side note…this is how I feel about life right now. What’s next? Now what?