I’m the kind of person that always wants to go home, but has no idea where that place is.
My very soul hurts from thinking about the concept of "home." It seems extremely unattainable to me even while I'm sitting here in my bed in the same room I've had since childhood. Whenever I leave the walls of this house that has done me no harm, or further distance myself by crossing state lines, the more peace I feel inside my body. I want nothing more than to feel at home and I want nothing more than to understand why I do not feel it in my family's house.
I have felt this way for years, so it's been a long time coming to the forefront of my mind. I know every inch of this house, and I don't know another place better than that. So why do I feel an impossible itch underneath my skin, in the very marrow of my bones, to not be here? Why do I feel closest to the idea of home when I am in somebody else's?
I just returned from a quick vacation to places I know make me happy, and I was getting off the airplane coming back filled with an absolute dread. I hate myself for feeling this way about a place that holds so many memories and people that I love. If there is one thing I am certain of, however, it is that I cannot stay here, and it's getting harder to breathe while I am here. My heart aches and my head throbs and I can't stop the tears that run down my face. I have never felt more alone because of this thought that my house is not my home. Nothing horrible has ever happened to me within these walls. I know I am safe here... but at the same time, I am not.
Do I need to find home in a place, or does it exist for me in a person? Either way, I am terrified I will never find it. If it wasn't here in the only "home" I remember then where can it possibly be?
My head is filled with nothing but dreams of a future that is my own, that involves me doing what I love, and at the end of every single day... I come home. What if that never happens for me? What if I am stuck with the same helpless feeling of never having a home my entire life? Yet another reason I feel as though I have outgrown this earth. Every step I take makes me feel even more lost, even when I know it's in the right direction.
So I sit here, among all my belongings and familiarity, trying to dissect the thought I just had, that if there was a fire in the middle of the night, and I could only save one thing, it would be my laptop because that is where I have written down all the gory, gruesome, and lovely phrases of my life. Even my personal effects don't feel like mine and don't make me feel comforted. Is this even my room? Is this my stuff? Is this my body? Is this my brain? What am I meant to do in this existence I've been given? Do I even exist? Or am I a ghost, writing down thoughts that I myself am haunted by?
Disaster takes shape in strange ways. Maybe it's this house. Maybe it's poisoning me and the only way to clear my head is to go and live in a van and drive it across the continent until I find a home, and in that home find myself.