I’ve gone and done it again. I’ve been absolutely idealizing something, something so close and yet just out of reach, something I crave but I just can’t yet have.

I’ve been idealizing Missouri.

Why Missouri? Well, that’s a very good question.
The answer is that I have family there.
The answer is that I vacationed there and I loved it.
I loved it because it wasn’t here.

And now I want to live there, because I want to live a holiday.
I have convinced myself that everything is easier there.
I have turned Springfield, Missouri into the Promised Land.

The plane that flew me home was a lowly puddle-jumper.

Fifteen minutes after boarding, I could already feel myself slipping into nonsensical dreams, dreams that I was still with Adam, that we hadn’t even left for the airport yet, or dreams that we were still on our way, driving swiftly under the shadow of dimly lit tunnels before shooting back into the strong, early morning sunlight. The plane was in motion, and I had completely forgotten I was on it until the flight attendant’s annoying voice began bleating the procedural bull-shit over the loudspeaker, bringing me to my senses. Not for long, though. I preferred my dreams to reality anyway, letting my subconscious wash over me in an effort to drown out my splitting headache. Somewhere to my right a baby cried.

My dreams were indecipherably delightful as I wavered back and forth between them. During the painful periods of awareness I replayed the four hour drive from Forsyth to St. Louis, through the curving, winding roads of Missouri. I remembered being pulled over at four-something in the morning, not five minutes after we’d set off, merely because the cops had had a slow night (and apparently because Adam had forgotten to dim his lights at the four-way). We got off with a “verbal warning” and continued on our way, stopping only for sustenance and to go pee, twice.

I remembered talking to Adam, confiding in him, venting to him about how awful my stepfather is, how much I hate him, how I can’t stand my mother because she is such a strong woman, and yet when it comes to my stepfather she becomes completely submissive and obeys him like a lowly dog. He treats her as such. Adam didn’t say much, just listened, nodded and drove us closer and closer to the airport, closer and closer to my nightmare come true.

I apologized for my outburst. He said it was okay. He was a better listener than a talker, and he said he didn’t mind.

I had never felt such nerves before.

Normally when I am nervous I laugh like an idiot, but not this time. This time my stomach turned over, like it was doing jumping jacks in slow-motion. The more signs we saw directing us to St. Louis or the airport, the tighter my insides seemed to clench. I was a wreck. I didn’t want to come back here, and Adam knew it, and he felt bad for me. “You’ll be back soon,” he said, and he sounded pretty confident, and I hoped that he was right about it.

Sailing high over God-knows what states, I missed Forsyth, Hollister, Branson, even Springfield, which I had spent hardly ten minutes in. I missed Missouri. But none of these places were mine. All that’s mine is Otter Lake, Columbiaville, Otisville, Davison and Lapeer, and maybe Flint. All that’s mine is Michigan, more than eight-hundred miles from where I want to be. A week ago I didn’t even know I wanted to be there I just knew I didn’t want to be in Michigan.

I knew I didn’t want to be home.

Well, I’m home. And all I want is to go back

Nothing has changed since my departure. I came back to my boring job, my dejected family life, and my stifling hot bedroom, where I hide out to avoid confrontation with the incompetent dickheads who claim to be my relatives.

I don’t care if they’re relatives.

The only thing that holds me to my mother is a less than lovely pool of genes, and even lesser is the meaningless legal union that step-connects me to her “husband.”

I know it sounds harsh, but it’s really so infuriating! I love my mother, but only when she behaves as a mother. I don’t love her when she acts like a voiceless slave wife. I could never live like that, which is precisely why my step-dad and I butt heads. I refuse to let him walk all over me, like he does my mother. I didn’t sign up for his shit. I’m only here because I’m young and I can’t afford to be anywhere else. At least not yet.

And then there’s Missouri.

I refuse to consider the possible negatives of moving away from familiar financial stability, however emotionally degrading. This has got to be it; Missouri is all I have left to put faith in. I learned quickly the importance of cutting my ties with Michigan and everyone and everything here. Immediately upon returning I informed my boyfriend that I didn’t want to be romantically involved anymore, which is just as well. Our relationship hadn’t been the best lately, and when it came to my problems at home, well, he was just about as comforting as a potato.

Not even a potato chip.

So, you understand this has got to be it!

All I have is down south, and it has to be perfect.
I have to believe it will all be okay.
All I have is Missouri.

A/N: I know this is kind of strange... like, what is it exactly? Prose?
I don't know, but I really felt this way at one time. All of these things really happened.
I had a teacher once who told me writers write best about what they know.
Since then, I've stuck to that philosophy and officially suck at writing fiction.
I can only fictionalize true events.
I guess that's what happened here.
Let me know what you think.