Sometimes, coming back home feels like pulling on a crusty old gym sock. Here in Denver, I don't have many friends, and I haven't met a lot of people who can even begin to understand why I am the way that I am. All I have to keep in touch with family are social media and frequent phone calls. Sometimes I get teary-eyed when they send me pictures of the adventures they're having without me, especially when they say how much they miss me. And I cried the hardest I've cried in a long time when my dad called me sobbing, telling me to pack my bags, because I was headed to Minnesota for the one thing I've never wanted to go there for.
When I'm at home, I don't go a day without thinking about my family and the farm. It's in my blood, and I can't help but wonder what is going on down there while I'm away. But also when I'm home, I have a lot of other things to think about and keep me busy. Chores must be done, I have projects I want to do, food to cook, a dog to entertain, and other things that help to keep me busy and my mind off my issues.
I have chances here and there to retreat to the wilderness and countryside even at home. There's miles and miles of dirtbike trails in the mountains, thousands of acres of hunt, and places to ride horses at. However, as fun as those things are, they don't usually help me make friends. And, when I do try to be social, chances are people will treat me differently since I have a disease they don't realize I can handle on my own.
So, I've had to come to the conclusion that I may never lose this feeling of loneliness. There's not a lot of people out there who can really relate to what I've been through, and what I do to stay alive and well on a daily basis. Those who understand seem to be dying and dead, and those who don't are healthy and perfectly normal. So maybe, this loneliness is a good thing. It forces me to keep adapting to new people and changes, rather than sticking to the same old stuff. It forces me to get out there, kinda like what my mom wants for me, so I can learn and grow.
