"I wanna go home, go back to small things
I don't belong here........"
A song about wanting to go home found me, and I understood every line without having lived its exact story.
I don’t have a home. There is the house I grew up in, where my parents still live. I fought with blood, tears, and the fraying edges of my sanity to get out. Not that they’re horrible people—just a toxic mix of personalities that vacuumed the oxygen out of every room. That place erased my coordinates. Leaving was the only way to survive.
My dad used to say when I was a kid: “Do this when you go to your own house.” “Own house” was supposed to mean my husband’s house. Even in elementary school I knew I needed my own deed, because what if that dude said the same thing? Fuck that. And now, after all of it, my father calls this place “our house.” Suddenly, “we” have a house here. How convenient.
Now I have a house. I bought it with my money. I sign the mortgage. I
found it. I painted the rooms. I hung the bathroom doors. I fixed the
sink. I hauled 40-pound soil bags to build a vegetable garden with my own
hands. I planted a lilac and a blue moon wisteria that now climbs the
pergola posts like it knows something I don’t. It is mine (and the
bank’s).
But is it home? I don't feel like I belong here. I sit on my green corduroy couch, in front of my blue brick fireplace, and watch the world go by without me. A figure frozen in my own snow globe. This town has felt like a mistake since the day I arrived. I remember choking back tears in Walmart while trying to get a phone line.The silent cries on the sofa I was crashing on six years ago never really stopped. My gut knew I chose the wrong town then.
I almost got out too. It wasn't the best exit but it was a solid option. Maybe I could have been happier in that place east. I could have moved and explored further. But I stayed. WHY?! Now, I don't even remember. I guess I am trying to prove something-- that I am, I can, and maybe that I am worthy. No matter how many times I try, it will never be enough. This hollow, sinking feeling in my gut will persist forever. Maybe I am not meant to belong anywhere.
