I realized as I was leaving my parents house, that that is not my home anymore. It was a little strange. I’ve mentioned before that they still live in the same house I grew up in. However, sometime between leaving for college and leaving after Christmas 2009, it ceased to feel like home.
They have remodeled the basement where my bedroom was, and most of my personal stuff has been boxed up and/or given to charity. That was fine with me, I never had the attachment to my room that most teenage girls (at least the teenage girls I see on TV) have. When I go and visit, I don’t even sleep in that room anymore. But it’s been that way for years.
I think there were three things that prompted this change.
1) I bought my own place. Yes, it’s a teeny-tiny condo, but it’s my teeny tiny condo.
2) Max and Lulu came to live with me. Suddenly, I had two little souls to take care of, two little souls that are tolerated, if not welcomed in my parent’s house.
3) My roommates/renters moved out, and I wasn’t able to find someone to rent the spare bedroom in my condo. I’ve been living alone for several months, having to worry about only myself and the dogs. This is the first time in my life that I have lived completely alone.
I like being the head of the house. I like being in charge. I like being able to make decisions about when and were and what I eat. I like not feeling like I need to turn off the TV and go to bed because I’m disturbing other people. While I love my parents, when I return to their house, I revert from an adult woman living on her own to a child fighting her parents for autonomy.
I love my family. I love the small town where I grew up. However, I’m glad I don’t live there anymore. As hard as it is for me to admit, I’ve grown up and moved on. With a little luck, I’ll end up back in my small town, but I’m not counting on it. For now, for me, home is my 1000 square feet of space 20 feet up in the air.