Home.

For a long time, whenever I can’t…. mentally handle what’s going on, my mind centers on a single phrase:

I want to go home.

Here’s the trick though: I don’t know what that means. Because when it first became a thing, I still lived at home. I was home. So I never understood why that phrase would pop into my head. 

My sophomore year of college during a pretty grueling time, I uttered that phrase to a friend and admitted I had no idea what it meant. And she said something kind of simple:

“Home is where the heart is.”

At the time, it made sense. My heart, aching, was with my friend who had decided to stop being my friend. But now? Now when it comes to mind, I think “Where’s my heart?” 

And truthfully?

I don’t know. 

Because I don’t know if that’s even what it means anymore. Because I know where my Home is. That’s not really a question. I think I should long for it more than I do.

What– I think– I actually want when I think “I want to go home” is just… Comfort. 

Wow. A bit vulnerable, I know.

But here’s the thing: Comfort is hard to come by. 

Ugh. (((There are so many things I could say. Words could flow out of my face in uncontrolled, unpolished mush. I could whine and spill out dreams that haven’t been realized and desires that refuse to be met, but what good would that do? Would it fix anything? Would it put things back into place? Would it make me feel better? To paint you a mental picture of what I wished things looked like? Would it do a single good thing? No. No, it wouldn’t. So….)))

Ugh. I want to go home.

-Melissa

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