What is home?
I know what home doesn’t look, sound, or feel like.
I know it’s not slamming doors and raised voices from anger. It’s not the sound of glass breaking or your mother, sister, and brother crying. It’s not the pleading “I’m sorrys” because you made him mad again. It’s not “you made me do this” or “look what you made me do.” You were responsible for me, I wasn’t responsible for you. I was a child and you were the adult.
It doesn’t look like people on edge unable to sit down. It looks like smiles and not constant frowns. It doesn’t look like clutter from minds that feel the same. It doesn’t look forced or scared or glued together. It doesn’t look covered up or desperate to hide.
It doesn’t feel like a weight in your chest making it hard to breathe. It doesn’t feel like eggshells always digging into your feet. It doesn’t feel like survival, a war zone or a lack of safety. It doesn’t feel like a nightmare, like you’d rather be “anywhere but here” but can’t relax when you’re gone because your mom is stuck there.
I keep hearing if you grew up in a broken home to think twice before you find someone who feels like home. The thing is, I grew up in a broken, dysfunctional house. That was never home.
Safety and home are meant to be synonymous.
I want someone who feels like home.