I Am Home

I am Home.

It took a long period of time to understand that “home” is not only a word that Google defines as a place where one lives permanently, but it is a feeling. I thought I knew where my home was. It was my address. My home had white walls covered with photographs of all my family members captured in a state of bliss. My home was where I grew up and where I began life as I knew it. I could close my eyes and easily find the rooms I needed to get to. My home was where I laid my head on the same pillow I did each and every night that would pass. My home was where my mother would stay home and take care of her children. My home was in the neighborhood where I had all of my friends. But what happens when that home is broken? When those perfect white walls covered in pictures become just that...a picture? A picture captures a memory. My childhood home had become a simple memory when my father came home drunk. When he cheated...when he lied...when he abused. I moved with my mother to my grandma’s house. My new home. I was living there. I had a roof over my head and food on the table. I was home, right? That is, until my mother had a new boyfriend, so quickly. I was told to pack my bags yet again. We were moving to a new home. Or so I thought. Because not even a couple years later, my mother had introduced me to a new man and I was told to pack my bags yet again. And I did. Because I needed a shelter. I needed a home. I needed 4 white walls where I could lay my head down...on the same pillow I always had...so I could feel safe...inside my home. My mother and I started arguing more often. I packed again, to stay with grandma for a while. I needed a home where I could feel safe. I eventually went back. This was a hard time in my life. I was 15. I had already moved around so much with my mother and her boyfriends. I tried my best to understand because I knew she was doing this so that we could both have a home. I had met a boy. And I fell in love for the first time. I thought I experienced love before but he was different. He made me feel like I was at home, even if I wasn’t. I was 16. I had moved again but this boy was still a permanent aspect in my life. I thought we were in it for the long haul. My life was revolved around a boy. A boy who turned out like the men my mother had always dated. To this day, I still remember the first time he struck me. He cried...told me it would never happen again. His anger only got worse. I was almost 17 when I was raped by a boy who made me think I was in love. That he was my home. Now, I didn’t feel safe anywhere I slept. Months had passed that I had kicked him out of my life. My home was not a cozy feeling. The white walls , the picture frames… the pillow where I laid my head. No matter where I laid my head, it was not a home. I found a home in the taste of vodka. I felt warm. I felt safe. I found happiness in drinking and pill taking. I let my sorrow eat me away. Both mentally and physically. I had developed an eating disorder. I welcomed bulimia into my life...into my home. Binging and purging made me feel like I was at home. I was happy. I felt weightless. This had become too much for my mother and one of her boyfriends. I was kicked out of my “home” at 18. I had an addiction. And now I needed to find a home. I needed to find a place to sleep. Because that is what a home is. I very easily became my mother. I went home to home with strange men. I would do anything they wanted...as long as I had a place to sleep that night. As long as I had alcohol or drugs. I was at home. In the midst of my random encounters, I met a boy...a man...at a party. We locked eyes all night long. We talked every day since we met. He gave me a home to stay. We developed feelings for each other so easily. It was an instant connection. He, also like me, was suffering from addiction. And together, we overcame. We conquered. He was my rock. He was my home. He was all I had. But not for long. I am pregnant. And I love this baby girl so much. Briella. She doesn’t know it yet, but she saved my life. I had to become the healthiest me I could be. I still don’t have contact with my family. My boyfriend and I have a cozy 2 bedroom apartment where we laugh and watch movies on the couch all the time. Where he lays his hand on my stomach saying “I am so happy to create this family...this home...with you.”

Home is not always where you expect it to be. Home isn’t just a place where you sleep. I feel home inside of me. I feel home around me. When I feel my baby girl kick...or when Andrew looks me in the eyes.. I am home.