I don’t want to make it look like I’m just another sad girl on the internet… although maybe I am, I don’t know.

I’m looking around my house right now, and there’s such a dichotomy between how I live and how I want to live. Half of my stuff is still in boxes, like I just moved in. Truth be told, I never really moved in… even though I’ve been here for 3 years, almost 4. This place never felt like home, and I guess if I’m being honest with myself (the point of writing here, other than strengthening the domain) I never wanted it to be home.

Where is home? I always feel so embarrassingly superficial about the pang in my chest when answering that question. There are so many vagrants out there, ranging from the downright abject homeless, to everyone who’s past has been ripped up and swept away behind them. It happens to everyone, and I guess after all is said and done I’m just one tiny piece of everyone so what the hell is my actual problem?

Have I ever been anywhere that felt like home? Yes, I have. I grew up somewhere. On 6 acres of NH waterfront, before we had paved roads, public schools, social services, or traffic reports telling us how long the 30 mile drive to Boston was actually going to take.

I also felt like my grandmother’s house, out in the Southern part of Upstate NY (which is apparently now a trendy place, wtf) was home. Our unpaved driveway was more than half a mile long, and honestly I don’t think that I ever truly walked to the edge of the property, or was able to truly understand how big it was.

I’ve of course been other places. I actually owned a home for almost a decade, which burnt down just before my entire life was set completely on fire. I remember packing up what was left to get out of there, and unsurprisingly it was all still in boxes from the move before. A decade before. While I did make some halfhearted attempts at enhancing my comfort (I bought a couch, other furniture, etc), it was entirely as ineffective as I bet I knew it would be. Still, I recognize a nostalgic feeling every time I drive by it, through my old neighborhood, getting stuck in the maze of traffic lights trying to get to what I remember as the cheapest gas station on that side of the city while I’m traveling through. In retrospect, those memories have a home-like quality. Only in retrospect. I hated that place, and everything in it. I still do. The only thing I miss was who I was, and who I could have been there.

This place was never meant to be home. I came here because my home was taken, once again. No, I’m not referring to that uncomfortable condo that I bought for lack of a better option. There was someplace in between that and this, and this place had also been between two other places. A bright purple Victorian in a beautiful town, which was never truly mine (my name was not on the deed) but somehow always felt like it was. Always.

The house is still there, but it’s no longer purple, and no longer mine.