This idea started out as a fear that even if I moved back to my old neighborhood it might not be the same.
It has since morphed into a psychological ponder about myself and what I feel like must be millions of others. For as long as I can remember in my adult life (ie: since moving out of my parents house) when things go terribly, emotionally wrong I just want to go home. Like, not my home, the home I grew up in. When the world feels upside down, I want nothing more than to curl up in a ball in my parents home and just feel all the feelings of finding rest in a safe place. That home is a sacred place to me and I as I have aged with increasing anxiety that house becomes more sacred.
Flashback three years ago, Matt, Jack and I had to temporarily move in to my parents house for a month due to emergency plumbing issues in our place. It. Was. Not. Fun. I kept thinking that I don't remember my parents being that neurotic when I lived there. Or it wasn't that bad. Did they get worse? Or had I just grown so accustomed to my own way of living that their way seemed foreign? I am grateful that they let us stay but I was severely let down by my own hyped up expectations about how fun it would be living at home again.
Where has my home gone? I couldn't get back there. It's a desperate feeling. I have the song lyrics running through my head, "home is wherever I'm with you". I wish I could feel it. I still feel homeless after having been asked to move from our home this past summer. I'm not attached to our new apartment. Obviously that would come with time and I think it would surprise me. But now I don't know where I want to live. I so badly want to feel at home. I digress.
I have this daunting fear that one day my parents may sell their home and I may not be OK. Like, how would that ever be OK?! You can't just sell someone's childhood home. The place I grew up. The place where I had no worries or fears. The place where I didn't have the weight of the world on my shoulders - I didn't even know the weight of the world was even a thing. Where my mom comforted me and wiped away my tears and took care of everything and made me feel loved. That home is not just symbolic. It's physical. And I feel that weight lifted whenever I enter through its doors. So familiar.
What is a home anyway and why can't we ever return. Why does it seem home is not a physical place rather it is an emotional place?
Hey, I'm Jen and I live in Seattle. PNW born and bred. Mom of two. I love photography and writing little snippets of my thoughts for this blog.