home is here.

“Vacation.” Vacate: 1 leave. 2 give up. The American version of a “holiday.” As a Canadian living in England on a work permit, what should I call it when I go to Cornwall for a week with my parents – who inadvertently bring so many Canada-isms with them they almost smell of maple?

Surely proper Europeans wouldn’t qualify that as a “holiday” (no nude beaches?!) But no one can argue I vacated. Took time off work, packed a far-too-large suitcase, emptied my wardrobe, my schedule, my flat. And yet, in a way, I went home…

Generally we take for granted that time moves forward, but it seems to me that when your past catches up with you – for instance, when you spend seven days in a confined space with the people whose genes tangoed to make yours some twenty-odd years ago – time seems to trip up, stumble over itself, land on its ass, so to speak.

I vacated one life, only to land smack-dab in another – one that I recognize too well. All it takes is a single dinner conversation and, voila, there I am at 5 years old, in pigtails, practicing piano, and there I am at 7, dutifully saying my bedtime prayers, and at 12, hiding in my room while my brother rages at my parents, and at 16 making out in the backseat of my dad’s car, and at 17, confessing to my mom…

Well, we needn’t go into all the sordid details. But am I the only the one who finds it difficult to be my self – as I am now, as I hope to be – around my parents? I’m not talking about teenage angst, I’m talking about the illogical, Freudian, easily diagnosable form of grown-up tension – a kind of anxiety that seems to grow with you. No matter that I have been an “adult” for years; I still unthinkingly, automatically, gage their reactions to my words, my actions… and then quickly, accordingly, i shuffle my cards in this ongoing game of power-seeking.

What will I play next – the blame card, my trump? “I’ll never be good enough for you!” Or the humility card? “I know I’m not perfect but I’m trying…” Or maybe I’ll throw down my hand – “Do you want me for me, or not? ‘Cause I’ll happily give you the censored version…” – while I slide the ace of spades up my sleeve. There is no such thing as folding; they’re my family. But there’s also no such thing as a tell-all; because unlike my father, and all fundamental Christians for that matter, I don’t think “truth” is a single word.

And there we have the central issue, the thing we’re playing for: religion. Or theology if you will. Even faith, if you want to go that far – Scripture verses are our chips, the “church” the deck we’re dealing. But I don’t like straight edges, and I don’t see simply black shapes on white. I live in shades of grey, the borderlands – and I don’t necessarily mind.

But am I developing a superiority complex (“Look at the clever little intellectual, asking questions without answers!”)? Have I become unforgiving, ungraceful? Heaven forbid it should be so; I’m only trying to find words for the battle that happens within – my soul, my heart, my mind, whatever – the struggle to please and yet to liberate myself from the pressure of having to please.

But it is not them who implicate me, it is me. Because I cannot stand to disappoint. I take my measure from those around me, from those who profess to love (or admire, or believe in) me most. I have not found my own ground. I have not solidified into an identifiable human. Or rather, a soul. My body is as traceable as anyone’s. And perhaps, for that reason, I am no more than that.

My holiday was, all in all, a good one. Only one emotional breakdown, one tear-stained evening. A pint snuck in, now and again, to take the edge off. Maybe I shouldn’t expect at 26 to know myself. Maybe I should stop focusing so much on myself. Maybe I should just shut up.

I love you, Mom and Dad. And, as with everyone who is unfortunate enough to be at the receiving end of my particular nebulous form of affection, I attach the requisite disclaimer: I am sorry.