I used to think I knew, but now I’m not so sure. To me a home should be a safe place…it’s where you go to regroup from the pressures and stresses of life…where you can relax and be yourself. I no longer have a home. Yes, I have a house that I live in but it’s just that…a house that I live in. It’s not a home, I don’t feel comfortable or safe there. The stress and sense of alienation I feel are just as strong there as they are in the outside world. I don’t feel I belong. The sick feeling in the pit of my stomach that I had everytime I was outside my home is now constant. It used to disappear whenever I walked through my door into my sanctuary but now it’s just as strong.
My home in the past (when I was young it was my bedroom) was always an extension of me. A comfortably eclectic mix of furniture and decor that enveloped and welcomed me every time I walked in the door. Then when my mother moved in, my “style” was relegated to boxes in the basement in favor of what made her comfortable and happy. Then there is the issue of non-material things…my sense of self was also banished. I can no longer be myself there, I have to continue the “make everyone else happy” persona that I had to create for the outside world inside now. The pressure is building and the cracks are beginning to show in a big way. And I feel powerless to stop it.
And at the risk of sounding like a drama queen, the thoughts of just quitting life are overtaking me again and the strength required to fight it just isn’t there anymore. And the people that should care don’t.
