Ever since I went back to Columbus to be with my mom so that she wasn't alone after finding out about the death of my grandpa, I realized how hard it was to go back. Memories flooded my mind as I made the drive back. Harsh tears burning my eyes as I remembered the drive back, in the past, usually meant it was time to "go back home". But I wasn't going back, not for that reason. It was my first trip back since I moved out almost two months ago. And the month leading up to my departure, was a nightmare. I didn't want to relive all of that, but I braced myself and helped support my mom.
Going back to that apartment, was the toughest thing I had ever done. It made me queasy, with both the familiar and unfamiliar smells. I couldn't believe that it all happened this way. I had made plans to spend two days with my friend in Pickerington, and my family. But I wouldn't of visited my grandpa, if he were alive. It's sad, but true. I didn't want to walk in on something I didn't want to see. Either a slew of hookers or him dead. And if I would have went there Friday like I had planned, he would have been dead.
I realized after the few days I spent down there, that I can't go back. I can't live in Columbus. I can't live in Whitehall. I just can't go back. I feel like I know too much going back. It feels like I stick out like a sore thumb. It's just so strange. I still think it's odd. And I've never felt so creeped out in my own apartment. It's slowly going away though.
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