I love the rain. The thick heady smell of damp earth. The feeling of the warm soil on my hands. The urge to grow something new. To plant a seed. The sound of it pelting my roof lulls me to sleeps. The angry thunder roars at my indifference and bangs about in the sky like a cantankerous old man throwing a fit. In the morning the rain has washed everything clean. The ground is shiny and new. The sins of the day before are erased and we start over again.
I have no need to parachute from a bridge to feel a rush of adrenaline I can get that by going to my mailbox or the doctor's office. What I have need for is comfort. I seek it out like a bloodhound. I just want a place to rest my weary head and feel safe. For people with mental illness comfort is a huge desire. We are often uncomfortable with everything else in out lives. Going to the grocery store can seem like a carnival ride to hell. Being in a packed room full of people can be a religious experience that you are certain you will not survive from. Some find it impossible to leave their homes. It would be like asking them to climb the world's tallest mountain with only two popsicle sticks and a pack of dental floss. We are constantly searching for comfort. Broken down vagabonds searching for the one place that gives us a moments peace. Carrying our carpet bags full of dirty clothes and broken promises.
For me my comfort is my home. The people that I love. I surround myself with things that give me peace. Books, my children's stick figure drawings, letters from long dead relatives. I cling to their handwriting as proof that they were once tangible presences in my life. They were here and they loved me. Pictures of family line my walls.Pictures of other people's happier times,younger times,more naive times. People starting relationships. People starting families. Cheerful smiles. Hopeful faces beaming with the notion that life is what you make it. Sometimes the smiles are true smiles and sometimes they are baked on paper masks hiding what lies beneath.
My home is my salvation. My routines are holy. Mornings are filled with terrific sameness of it all. Hearing my husband putter down the stairs and clink the cups as he makes us coffee. I sometimes lay there and listen to his footsteps. Comforted by the repetitiveness, the safeness. The glorious aroma of fresh coffee will curl it's tendrils of scent to my nose and I know I can no longer lay there pretending to be asleep. This is the time he and I play like adults. We discuss bills, the latest news, silly unimportant things that make us laugh. His smile is my comfort. The soft snoring of my children tucked tightly in their beds. The pitter-patter of their little feet as they get ready for school. I know that at this moment no unforeseeable force is out to get me. I am safe. I can rest my weary head here with these people that love me. They are my comfort. This broken down vagabond has finally found her place of peace. I am blessed and I am firmly aware of it. I revel in the comfort that I spent most of my life seeking. I need the warm balm of comfort soothing my scraped and bruised soul. This place is sacred. This place is holy. This place heals my broken spirit. It washes my soul and makes it anew. Here I can wait for the rain. Here I can put down my bags. I can wash my soiled clothes and repair my broken promises. Here I can love. Here I can just be.