No place like home

After driving the length of France, twice, and leaving the most dramatic scenery of all, the Pyrenees, behind us again, the roads and villages of England, our Lechlade, and our street looked so quaint and small. Anti-epic in every sense.

It was great to just be in northern France, and it got better as we drove south. Returning to an English ferry even before English soil sank our hearts. We do not belong.

I feel guilty for not enjoying what we have here. A beautiful home and village. Life should be beautiful. But it isn’t. We don’t want to be here. We don’t belong. We can never be truly happy here.

I struggle to understand myself. Why when everyone is basking in the sunshine, kicking back with their beers and bbqs, their lawn-mowing and garden get togethers, drinks down the pub, their dog walks, their home renovation plans, their holiday planning, new baby excitement, are we looking on in confusion? Aliens.

Is alcohol the missing link? If we drank more would we have more purpose, be happier with life here?

My job is the best I could hope for in this country. I have job satisfaction. I am incredibly lucky to be able to express myself through my work. It doesn’t pay enough though, to fulfil all my needs and wants financially, so it doesn’t make me happy the way most people benefit from their work.

Even if Ben had a job he enjoyed where he could express himself, we wouldn’t find happiness here. It’s bigger than that. It’s cultural through and through. It’s everyone around us. It’s the norms.

But maybe it’s also about creating something more for ourselves. An entire business and way of life designed specifically for and around us. Something we simply can’t afford to do in this country.

I feel trapped. I feel all three of us are walking on the eggshells of depression. For now, a diet of movies, sex and good food, is all I can prescribe to get us through.



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