I wanted to do a happy post today, with all our photos from my birthday on Friday, happy smiley faces and a great day out in London – I will write that post soon, but before that, I just need to get something else off my chest.
I haven’t really written any long, meaningful posts on here for a while, mainly just photos, what we’ve been doing, general day to day stuff. Why? Well, family were reading my blog more than I realised, and instead of commenting about how well it was doing, how well I’d done to get so many views etc, they just picked single phrases out of my posts and commented negatively on those. I felt like they had invaded my personal place, my blog, my thoughts, my words, my feelings, the place I thought I could be myself has become less private, so I stopped sharing it on my personal Facebook page. Now I just think F**k it – let them. Let them pick apart everything I do, let them read, hell, some people I see every single day of my lives and have known for 22 years could learn more about me from my blog than through our normal everyday interaction – guaranteed.
I could just write that happy post that I intended to, share it and keep everyone reading my blog with a big smiley face – but what is the point of that? What’s the point of portraying an image of us that isn’t real? I want to be honest, I want to keep my blogs true to myself. People always say ‘it could be worse – think positive’. Someone please tell me when those 4 words, ‘it could be worse’ have made anyone feel better? It’s bullshit. I KNOW it could be worse, I could have no family, I could be a one legged blind homeless woman, I know. Does this mean I’m not entitled to feel the way I do? Does it mean I’m not grateful for the things I do have? Of course not. I am grateful. All those 4 words do is make people feel guilty for feeling the way they do – which in turn, only makes them feel worse. It most certainly doesn’t help.
Anyway, here it is. I’ve realised over the past 3 weeks he’s been here, that Berkay not being here, in England permanently isn’t the problem. Of course it is a huge stumbling block, but if he were allowed in the country to stay, work and live, tomorrow, would we really be happy here? These 3 weeks have made me realise, that no, I don’t think we would. Life here just isn’t the same as life in Turkey. Perhaps it’s because we made our own life there, had our own house, own friends, nobody to answer to, nobody to clean up after or to rely on. We just had ourselves, and our dog. Sure, we had bills to pay, Berkay worked 24/7 and we had money worries, but we managed, and we were happy. I liked the isolation. I enjoyed it.
It’s just not the same here. I’ve been back here six and a half months and it still doesn’t feel like home. I hate it. I just hate it. It still feels like I’m intruding in someone else’s house. I live with 4 other people, yet I feel more alone than I did when I spent 18 hours a day alone in our house in Turkey.
I was closer to my family when I lived in Turkey – I spoke to them every day because I missed them – we had things to tell each other – now we talk because we have to, because we’re sat in the same room and there’s an awkward silence. People who made an effort to talk to me when I was thousands of miles away now no longer bother even though I’m right here, in the same country, city, town.
The other day, I had tears in my eyes because Berkay was watching a film and the doorbell that rang in the scene sounded exactly like the one at our house did. We rewound it to listen again. Even I know that’s not normal, who the hell gets so excited about hearing a doorbell that they rewind and listen to it over?
The problem isn’t that Berkay isn’t here with me permanently, the problem is that I am not there with him.