I'm moving apartments today. It's been a week-long project, to be honest, but today is the last of it. Furniture, food, and my bedroom string lights (because why would a bedroom need overhead lighting?) are all coming to the new place today. The weirdest part is that my new place, barren save for some boxes and all, feels more like a home than my last few apartments ever did. Why is that? Let's dive into it.
First of all, I want to start off by admitting I did pack my journal and pens, and no, I don't know which box they're in. That's why I'm writing to you. However, this also feels like something worth posting in a way. No real thesis or deeper hidden meaning, just a person in their mid-20s moving for probably about the 30th time by now wondering what makes a home. This will be a typical braindump style thought-vomit of words. Enjoy or don't. You clicked on this blog, so you have the power to click off. Okay, disclaimers out of the way, let's start at the beginning I guess.
I apparently lived in a trailer when I was really little. I only remember the cream-colored two-story house I grew up in from toddler years to late elementary school (I think like 10 years). Most of my childhood memories are in that house my mother inherited in the middle of the smallest town in my county that no one but its inhabitants seem to know about. I played with my friends on the main block almost daily. We ran in our yards, splashed in the (probably contaminated) creek behind our houses, and occasionally even went to the mini playground at the fire station. We frequented the corner store that sold candy with soda machines outside. We lived a good childhood for the minuscule size of the town we ran around, but if it had been bigger, then my mom probably wouldn't have let me run it like that one.
Then, mom sold the house.
We stayed in hotels and sometimes at friends' or family's homes. I lived out of bags, sharing rooms with my entire 5-person family at times, and most of my things were in a storage unit that we eventually lost. Finally, my mom and stepdad settled us into a ranch-style home in the middle of the woods outside of a different small town just north of my childhood hometown. We were there for a while, but during this time is when I started seeing my dad more until I ultimately moved in with him full time. I won't get into the gritty, gory details of why. I lived most of middle and high school in his first house. It almost started to feel like home in a way my mom's new house never fully did. I blame the harsh memories from my mom's house for tainting my view on it. There were many reasons I left my mom's care. My dad tried his damnedest to ruin my view on him and his house as well, but most of my memories from that house are good. I think. I've lost a lot of time in my memories.
When my dad got married, we moved just over the state border to my new stepmom's bigger house. I hated every month we were there. It was in the middle of fields and forests. There was nothing within 20 minutes of that house but the rare neighbor. They decided to move us all to a new house back in my home state about a year into their marriage, but the new place about 30 minutes from my school, work, friends, and the rest of my family. It felt like another inconvenience, a hassle, something to despise not grow to love. I was only there a few months before going off to college. I could barely count how many places I'd lived by time I was 18. I'd only felt home in my childhood house thus far. What was that?
Was it time lived there? I stayed nowhere longer than a few years after that first house I remember. Was it the ratio of good-to-bad memories? It was the happiest time of my life, as childhood should be. Or was it something intrinsic about that place that made it feel like I belonged there? I love that old house and still think of it often. I never could figure out what made it different than anywhere else I've lived.
I've lived in two dorms, my ex-boyfriend's mother's house, and now four apartments. I'd say my ex's mom's house was a home because we made it. The house was nothing special, but we were. Now that I'm no longer in that family, it's no longer my home. The time we shared there will always be special, though, just like my childhood home. None my apartments have been lovely, except (hopefully) this new one. Is it who I've lived with? None of my roommates made me feel particularly welcome or like I should love our shared space. Now that I have a place all to myself and my cat, I feel safe. Did I just make poor rooming decisions thus far?
Like I said, this new apartment is void of furniture. It's in the bigger town near my hometown where I've always worked, shopped, and visited friends and family. It's not a special town to me. It just is my town. The duplex I live in is pretty inside, at least my half is. All historic wooden trims and plenty of big windows. My cat seems comfortable here. I'm comfortable here. It could be a home, for the time being.
I plan to stay put for at least a couple of years here. Is it the settling that's making it feel safer, more welcoming, comfortable? I've lived at every apartment so far a max of one and a half years. This one will be about 2-3 years if all goes to plan. Maybe that promise of time is opening my mind up to the possibility of calling this a home. Or maybe the privacy I've never had. Or maybe something intrinsic about this place, like my first home.
What makes a home? Well, I'm still figuring that one out. I'm hopeful I've found a new temporary one after years without that homey feeling, but who am I to say? It'll happen, or it won't. I have no control over what my brain decides to feel about this place or any of the past ones.
My creative nonfiction professor, after grading my piece on how often I've moved, called my life a "shit show." I was offended yet a little amused at first, but now, I wonder if she was right. I've moved so many places, lived so many lives, roomed with so many people (about 30 if my math is right). Now, I'm settling down alone for a bit. I don't need to make sense of any of this because it just is how my life has gone. And for someone who has moved more times than I can count, I've found during this move that I can't pack efficiently to save my life. It's fine. I'm almost done, then it'll all come out of the haphazardly-packed boxes into my new home. My new life, in a way, but not really. I have the same friends in the same town working the same jobs I have for a bit now. It just feels like a promising new chapter. It will be if I make it one, I guess.
Happy belated new year. Here's to making home wherever we feel like it. Maybe that's even in objects, pets, or people instead of a place. That's a whole ramble for another day, though. Bye for now. Be on the lookout for site updates, as I'm already tired of this layout. Until then! xxx