Home is where the heart is

Tomorrow, the truck comes to haul our worldly possessions across the highway to our new abode. Our penultimate day in this old house that I've had my problems with. Too dark, no room for me, not feeling at home.

But when in my life did I ever feel at home? Growing up, home was not homey. Lack of adequate heat, enough water, and other luxuries made things rustic to say the least. When anything broke, it stayed that way. When a part of the house was unsafe, it was to be avoided. Any wonder I hate camping? I learned to walk around things, simultaneously not noticing their existence or absence. Also, the unspoken and spoken rule that I wasn't allowed to invite anyone over or even into the house for a minute, made it hard to have that warm, homey feeling. Growing up that way led to living in my head. A habit I haven't really been able to shake all these years, even in my own apartments and my own home. I would feel equally at home at a friend's house or hotel as I did at my own home. Whereever I was, that was where I lived. I never wanted to particularly get back to my own place. I could say this is all zen-y, groovy detachment, but \I think you need to be able to attach before you detach!

Sharing a home, albeit with a nice guy, drove me under, yet again. At first this house felt like Gameguy's house because it *was* Gameguy's house and he had rules and traditions. Later it felt like a house I had to live in but didn't choose. I never had what it took to stake my claim on this house. To fight it our and have a mauve powder room or whatever the hell people this is crucial to their vision of home. I want the new house to be different. I want to learn what a home is and how to feel at home in it. Today, I could walk away from our old house and everything in it, except the family and my kitchen aid mixer, and never look back. I wonder if it's possible for an old "gypsy" like me to change her tent stripes?