I came to an interesting realization when I was up in Maine for a vacation: I don’t love Maine as much as I thought I did.
I love the ocean, the mountains, the general laid-back feel of the place. I’m quite proud of being a Mainer. But every time I go back I can’t help feeling some of the bad vibes that were created up there when I was growing up. The responsibilities I had when living with my parents, the rough time I had through high school. I was sick a lot when I lived in Maine, I was constantly stressed out, I was painfully unpopular. Almost every time I see a familiar place in Maine I’m not filled with happy nostalgia, I start putting up defenses. My “hometown” doesn’t feel like Home at all, it’s a place that feels bad and must be avoided lest I encounter someone I knew from my life back then.
I’ve certainly changed a lot since I left Maine. When I lived in Maine I was a loner, enjoying reading and walks alone in the park and on the beach above all other things. For the longest time I believed I’d be happy to live out my life in a cabin in Maine full of books and cats, as one of those crazy spinster cat ladies. After all, I knew from High School that I’m not fun or smart or interesting, so screw the world, I’ll be fine by myself.
Of course, as we all learn, High School is nothing like the real world, so as soon as I left Maine my world view was turned on it’s head and it turns out I’m all those things I “knew” I wasn’t.
And now? At this point in my life I would probably be miserable in that cat and book cabin. I actually like living near a city where I can always find new people to hang out with, things to do, and groups to get involved with. When I return to familiar places in Maine all I can think about is how tiny it is, how few people there are. Where is the fun in that?
That said, I wouldn’t object to moving to a more secluded place someday, I can see myself growing out of this social butterfly stage and wanting quiet again. But I’m now quite sure it won’t be Maine that I go back to.