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What do you do when your home becomes a prison, when the mere thought of returning to your so-called home fills you with dread? For one who has gone years without anything resembling a home in the physical sense the fact that the place they finally were able to procure would be as uncomfortable as not having one in the first place is very disheartening. Nothing about the trailer I live in makes me happy. It’s incredibly small, the bed sags, the toilet is broken, the kitchen is inadequate, I’m afraid to use the oven, the refrigerator does weird things and is way too small, the A/C either doesn’t work or when it does is not sufficient to do any real temperature reduction, the gas tanks have leaked on more than one occasion, there’s no counter space, it has mold, the door to the bedroom is off its hinges, the shower sucks, the mirror is broken, the cockroaches have taken over, and probably the worst part is the person that I’m desperately trying to rid myself of, who absolutely refuses to let go, is there. I will sleep in my car on occasion just to not have to go home. I very often consider just living in my car full time. You know it’s bad when you’d rather sleep in the car in the cold then go home. I mean it’s not a home. Home is something very special to me, it disgusts me thoroughly to refer to that roach infested hell hole as my home. I haven’t had a physical home since I left my parents place when I was 19. I’ve tried to make many places a home, but it’s always backfired, and, in the process, I’ve lost every precious physical item I’ve ever owned or created. My years homeless has made me very leery of feeling and kind of comfort, or security in a dwelling. I also refuse to own anything that does not serve a purpose, in case I have to pack up and go on short notice. My possessions consist of clothing and school supplies. Everything I own would fit neatly into a backpack and a duffle bag, and I have no intention of altering that. I don’t think I will ever truly feel at home anyplace again. My concept of home goes far beyond a roof over my head, beyond a secure place for my things, beyond a place to sleep. My concept of home has become deeply rooted in my soul. The loss of ever being able to feel at home in a dwelling fills me with grief. I do not believe I will ever be able to call any place I live truly home again. I know it’s unwise, but I will accept nothing less than perfection. Where I do feel at home the most is not a concrete place. It’s situations, being around people I love and trust. I will always carry this sense of home with me which maybe perhaps is the wiser choice. I guess in truth I carry home with me everywhere I go. Even when I was homeless all those years the sense of home I felt when I was with the people I loved and trusted kept me going. Forever home will never be a place, it will be a feeling, a sense of completion that no mere dwelling will ever be able to possess. Home for me is not a place to be, it is a sense of being, belonging. There’s truth in the statement you can never go home because you are already there. For me at least home follows me wherever I go. Given the right set of circumstances anywhere can be home. Yes, the physical dwelling I posses will always make me feel uneasy, trapped by insecurity and mistrust, a prison of the mind. But my freedom comes when I remember that true home is what I carry in my heart and nothing can take that away.
What do you do when your home becomes a prison, when the mere thought of returning to your so-called home fills you with dread? For one who has gone years without anything resembling a home in the physical sense the fact that the place they finally were able to procure would be as uncomfortable as not having one in the first place is very disheartening. Nothing about the trailer I live in makes me happy. It’s incredibly small, the bed sags, the toilet is broken, the kitchen is inadequate, I’m afraid to use the oven, the refrigerator does weird things and is way too small, the A/C either doesn’t work or when it does is not sufficient to do any real temperature reduction, the gas tanks have leaked on more than one occasion, there’s no counter space, it has mold, the door to the bedroom is off its hinges, the shower sucks, the mirror is broken, the cockroaches have taken over, and probably the worst part is the person that I’m desperately trying to rid myself of, who absolutely refuses to let go, is there. I will sleep in my car on occasion just to not have to go home. I very often consider just living in my car full time. You know it’s bad when you’d rather sleep in the car in the cold then go home. I mean it’s not a home. Home is something very special to me, it disgusts me thoroughly to refer to that roach infested hell hole as my home. I haven’t had a physical home since I left my parents place when I was 19. I’ve tried to make many places a home, but it’s always backfired, and, in the process, I’ve lost every precious physical item I’ve ever owned or created. My years homeless has made me very leery of feeling and kind of comfort, or security in a dwelling. I also refuse to own anything that does not serve a purpose, in case I have to pack up and go on short notice. My possessions consist of clothing and school supplies. Everything I own would fit neatly into a backpack and a duffle bag, and I have no intention of altering that. I don’t think I will ever truly feel at home anyplace again. My concept of home goes far beyond a roof over my head, beyond a secure place for my things, beyond a place to sleep. My concept of home has become deeply rooted in my soul. The loss of ever being able to feel at home in a dwelling fills me with grief. I do not believe I will ever be able to call any place I live truly home again. I know it’s unwise, but I will accept nothing less than perfection. Where I do feel at home the most is not a concrete place. It’s situations, being around people I love and trust. I will always carry this sense of home with me which maybe perhaps is the wiser choice. I guess in truth I carry home with me everywhere I go. Even when I was homeless all those years the sense of home I felt when I was with the people I loved and trusted kept me going. Forever home will never be a place, it will be a feeling, a sense of completion that no mere dwelling will ever be able to possess. Home for me is not a place to be, it is a sense of being, belonging. There’s truth in the statement you can never go home because you are already there. For me at least home follows me wherever I go. Given the right set of circumstances anywhere can be home. Yes, the physical dwelling I posses will always make me feel uneasy, trapped by insecurity and mistrust, a prison of the mind. But my freedom comes when I remember that true home is what I carry in my heart and nothing can take that away.
