Home
Somehow, that topic comes up - people ask me where home is, do I like where I’m living, etc. - and it’s hard for me to answer when it’s beyond the simple “I’m living in (insert geographical place).”
For most of my life, home was a single address in Minnesota. From the time I was brought home from the hospital, all through my school years and college and even for years afterwards, it was that one place. It was where my family - Mom, Dad, brother, and the dog - was, where the memories were. I moved around the state, lived in other parts of it while working, but home was always that one place.
It hasn’t been that way for more than a few years now. I left Minnesota entirely and have lived in other parts of the country - basically, wherever I could find a roof to put over my head, all of which belonged to friends. They were all places that I lived - houses, apartments, whatever the classification might be - but, in my head, they weren’t quite ‘home.’ I lived there - I ate, I slept, I went to work and did my shopping and at the end, I came back there, but it was never thought of as home. I don’t regret any of them or the experiences and the memories I have, as they have shaped who I currently am and who I want to become, but ‘home,’ they weren’t.
There was always the possibility wherever I was could become ‘home’ to me. The climate really didn’t matter to me. I loved the winters without snow in California just as much as watching everything shut down because of a trace of snow in Tennessee. I can deal with any kind of rain - light drizzle to torrential downpour - just as much as 100-plus temps without air conditioning. Neither did the scenery outside my window - watching a bustling city is just as nice as seeing mountains in the distance from the front porch. And every place had people, both the old friends that brought me there and opportunities for new ones to be found.
But home is something I think I’m still looking for - that one, true place for me. I want home to be a place where I belong, where comfort and security are as much mental as physical. Where I can let myself shatter into millions of pieces and know it’s okay, that they’ll find their way back together. Where every part of me has freedom to do more than just exist - to grow and flourish as much as break apart and fall down. I’ve found bits and pieces of it, but not quite the full picture.
Sometimes, I think the only home I have is my car. It’s the one place that is MINE, entirely MINE. Rust, dents, damaged and all, it’s mine. It’s where I know I can shed tears without voices in my head and/or in person telling me not to cry. It’s where I know I can dream and wish and hope and not feel foolish for doing so. It’s where frustrations can be vented without hurting anyone else, physically or emotionally. It can hold all of my valued possessions and still be driveable - I know this from firsthand experience. Losing my car in some way that’s not by my choice (i.e. breakdown, accident, etc.) is not something I’ll handle very well because it’ll be taking away that part of me.
In the end, there’s still a home out there for me to find. It’s somewhere. Don’t know where. Don’t know with who. Just know it’s somewhere and I’ll hold on long enough to find it.
For most of my life, home was a single address in Minnesota. From the time I was brought home from the hospital, all through my school years and college and even for years afterwards, it was that one place. It was where my family - Mom, Dad, brother, and the dog - was, where the memories were. I moved around the state, lived in other parts of it while working, but home was always that one place.
It hasn’t been that way for more than a few years now. I left Minnesota entirely and have lived in other parts of the country - basically, wherever I could find a roof to put over my head, all of which belonged to friends. They were all places that I lived - houses, apartments, whatever the classification might be - but, in my head, they weren’t quite ‘home.’ I lived there - I ate, I slept, I went to work and did my shopping and at the end, I came back there, but it was never thought of as home. I don’t regret any of them or the experiences and the memories I have, as they have shaped who I currently am and who I want to become, but ‘home,’ they weren’t.
There was always the possibility wherever I was could become ‘home’ to me. The climate really didn’t matter to me. I loved the winters without snow in California just as much as watching everything shut down because of a trace of snow in Tennessee. I can deal with any kind of rain - light drizzle to torrential downpour - just as much as 100-plus temps without air conditioning. Neither did the scenery outside my window - watching a bustling city is just as nice as seeing mountains in the distance from the front porch. And every place had people, both the old friends that brought me there and opportunities for new ones to be found.
But home is something I think I’m still looking for - that one, true place for me. I want home to be a place where I belong, where comfort and security are as much mental as physical. Where I can let myself shatter into millions of pieces and know it’s okay, that they’ll find their way back together. Where every part of me has freedom to do more than just exist - to grow and flourish as much as break apart and fall down. I’ve found bits and pieces of it, but not quite the full picture.
Sometimes, I think the only home I have is my car. It’s the one place that is MINE, entirely MINE. Rust, dents, damaged and all, it’s mine. It’s where I know I can shed tears without voices in my head and/or in person telling me not to cry. It’s where I know I can dream and wish and hope and not feel foolish for doing so. It’s where frustrations can be vented without hurting anyone else, physically or emotionally. It can hold all of my valued possessions and still be driveable - I know this from firsthand experience. Losing my car in some way that’s not by my choice (i.e. breakdown, accident, etc.) is not something I’ll handle very well because it’ll be taking away that part of me.
In the end, there’s still a home out there for me to find. It’s somewhere. Don’t know where. Don’t know with who. Just know it’s somewhere and I’ll hold on long enough to find it.