Missing myself

So, my home is as far away as it can get. The very opposite of the Earth. There is a winding country road, with paddocks that stretch to the sky. The mirages the sun makes on the tarseal, the neighbours houses that I grew up in, that I know by heart. There is the house with the big garden, the verandah, the smell of my mother's hair. The hammocks that swing in the salty breeze, the crash of the waves. The insects singing in the trees. That is so far away, in every way. I wanted to go for a month, in January. I haven't been back for three years, or more. But how? Being sick the whole time? Actually yes. I'm deciding this as I write it, but I know it's the only way out. I'll quit methadone two weeks or so before I go. I'll reduce myself on h. Then, I'll get on a plane and go cold turkey. I'll arrive, pretend to be sick. Recover. Be well. It's the only way. Maybe I won't even come back. If I try to take methadone over there, my parents will find out. I'll be listed as a drug user, unable to adopt the baby that I need- just in case. It will mess up everything. Fuck. This is a strange dream. I wish I could wake up.