Home

Leigh;
Leigh;
Nov 3 · 4 min read

I have a candle with the word “home” inscribed into the glass. It smells of gardenias and musk, of what I’ve always wondered what a home should smell like after years of use. I have never had a home to call my own; my childhood home was adorned with pale walls, creaking cabinets, scuffed paint, and a clinical sense of loneliness. Despite my amnesia, I can still remember the outdoor pool, where my father and I would test the water chemistry and skim the green surface with a thin net. I can still remember my childhood dog, whose anxious nature was only amplified in the house where a family consisted of strangers. I can still remember my brother smelling of gasoline and the stench of vodka on my father’s breath. I can still remember.

But yet, there is a lot that I can’t remember. I can’t remember developing my own persona as I transitioned from childhood to teenagehood. I can’t remember my own thoughts, my own desires, my own hopes or dreams. I can’t remember the names or faces of my childhood friends, nor can I remember the transformative point where I became self-aware and on the brink of depression. I often ask myself: when did the line between childlike euphoria and actualization occur? When did my realization begin that something was not quite right within myself? When did I descend from above like a fallen angel, only to find myself pleading for forgiveness on my bedroom floor? When did my second life begin?

The concept of a “home” has never settled in my stomach; it was always stuck like a knot inside of my throat. For decades, I wrestled with the idea that home was not a place to which you return after a treacherous day. Alternatively, a home doesn’t necessarily have to be corporeal — it can be another living, breathing human. I began to understand that I kept myself alive because of the home I found within others, and I propelled myself forward with that thought in mind. Suddenly, my residence within my loved ones’ hearts became the basis upon which I survived. I convinced myself to see through to another day.

Where is the line drawn between comfort and dependence? As time progressed, I latched onto and was imprinted upon by others. I weaved myself a personality resembling the culmination of their traits that I desired to emulate. My loved ones’ interested were reflected within my binders of compact discs, the posters hanging on my bedroom walls, my style of dress, and the way in which brushes stroked the parchment. Undoubtedly, I never developed a transparent sense of self, and thus my fixation on reincarnation began. Reinventing myself with every turn, I fleeted between social cliques in my formative years in an unruly attempt to find myself.

In adulthood, this insistence to mirror others remains. At twenty-seven years of age, I have retained my childhood sense of misplacement and still feel the urge to adopt my loved ones’ hobbies, interests, political stances, and mannerisms. I understand now that my proclivity toward mirroring is a byproduct of my lack of self-development as a child, but regardless of this realization, I still feel helplessly lost. Who am I beneath the veil of put-togetherness, of fulfillment, of advocacy? Who am I, really?

The question beckons truth, and the truth refuses to come forward. Even after three years of intensive therapy, I have yet to distinguish my own personality from the personalities I have adopted over the course of my life. Psychologists say that it was simply a survival tactic to overcome trauma, that in order to cope with the stress I replicated those around me whom I deemed functional, but at twenty-seven years old, I believe I should recognize my true self. I believe I should have made a home within myself.

Home. The word is comforting, and I can imagine it’s correlated with sunken couches within cozy living rooms, with accent pillows strewn about the room, with freshly-cooked pasta and meatballs simmering in the kitchen, with the scent of what could only be explained as “home.” Throughout my life, I have sought out this home, and it has not been until recently that I stumbled upon the realization that a true home is within the walls of my mind. A true home is finding solace within yourself; seeking tranquility in healthy, positive coping skills; understanding that you must take care of yourself before extending your hand to anyone else. You cannot be a home for yourself if you do not allow yourself the luxury of enforcing personal boundaries and respecting yourself enough to know when to rest.

I believe I should have made a home within myself long ago. Nevertheless, now is not a time for past grievances, solemn regrets, or self-deprecation. Knowledge beckons forth empowerment, and awareness of your own pitfalls is the first step toward forgiveness. Although I may not have a grasp on my own identity, I can still reach within myself and discard past remorse. Perhaps through learning how to forgive myself, I may ultimately find myself. I may make a home within my own bones, my own flesh and cartilage.

I have a candle with the word “home” inscribed into the glass. I light the candle, and the room succumbs to its fragrance. It smells of gardenias and musk, of acquittal and closure. I close my eyes. I am home.

Leigh;

Leigh;

28-year-old self-proclaimed espresso addict, animal enthusiast, mental health advocate and forest wanderer.

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