Home

What is “home”? When I think of my home, I don’t think of one at all.

For 10 years, I had a home. One I built for my son and busted my ass for. I left it and although I could have always came back, it wasn’t the same. It doesn’t feel like my home anymore. I look around and see walls. I don’t feel like I belong here or anywhere for that matter.

Sometimes when I think of home, I think of my grandmother’s house. That has been home to many in my family and at some points, me too. The place that was full of smiles, laughter, and love. Once my grandpa died it started to change. When grandma died… the house died with her. A year ago I thought it was home still. The past year has been one of the worst in my life. It wasn’t the house but the feeling I was longing for while in the house was gone. The house had that feeling for a short period of time. Every time my Mom came to visit, the house was alive again. The light shined brighter, the flowers smelt sweeter, and the rooms lit up with laughter and love once again. When she leaves, it turns back in a pumpkin. I wonder if it’s because it is essentially her childhood home.

I have/had a childhood home. My family no longer owns it. I know it kills my mother, but when I see what improvements have been made and think of the memories the new family is making there, I remember that it’s just a house. Not a home. It was 4 walls that watched children grow and whether she sees it or not, my mother grew there too. She grew into my warrior, my savior, my best friend, and the woman I will always look up to.

I don’t feel like I have a home. I don’t feel like I belong anywhere.

Is it because I don’t know I am? Or is it because I’m looking for a feeling that I will never find again in my life?

Can I make a home feel this way again?

Yours Truly,

BPD Warrior