No matter where I am, it will not feel like home.

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No matter where I am, it will not feel like home.

This is a sad fact, for me, at least. I’ve been to different places within the years I’ve been breathing. Been to my old house which served as my home for 10 years. I grew up there with my dad. It was good, all because of my cousins. It was bearable. Moved outside the country for maybe a month, and as a child I didn’t feel like it was a safe space for me. Came back and grew up again from the old house. I can tell you that the street we stayed there surely gave me so many memories, but dare I say I will not come back to live there again. We then moved to a new province and stayed here for up until now without my dad. He was pitiful. Been living here for a couple of years and I can tell you, it’s a hell of a place. It’s better than our old address though, but it’s not much nostalgia.

When we define home in a sentimental sense, it means to us like we’re in a place where we can safely say we’re comfortable and good. Like we’re here and we don’t want to leave because it’s such a nice place. It brings us so much healing we never really think we need until it arrives to us. So that’s what makes me question the places I’ve been to, because I never really felt that way. Sure, they brought so many memories and I love the other parts of it, but if you ask me, I will choose to forget half of those memories. Sure, this new place we’re residing in has brought me to my newfound friends and made me meet such an amazing woman I could’ve loved for my entire life, but I blame this place for making me who I am today.

This new home that I am in, it is far from what others describe as a “home”. See, when I see these people actually enjoy their life with their family every day, I envy them. Because at this house, it’s hard to determine which is your family. I didn’t grow up in a loving family. I grew up in a family where there is always a problem, or if there is something that happens, you can best believe you’re going to be blamed for it. And most of the time, money is the problem. I got to the point that mentally, I don’t know which to blame, but I am sure as hell I won’t blame myself as much as they blamed me for the little things. I pinned it into almost everything. Just like how I blame this house and the people in it as the reason for who I am today. And the person I am today is somehow a mentally unstable but can pretend she is stable, loving to her friends but not to herself, loves money so much she doesn’t want to lose it even though she’s losing it gradually.

I blame it on my mom and dad for not showing me how love should be given. Because I don’t know how to love myself, and I hate that it made me unfamiliar with such sincerity and kindness. This house that is filled with hatred and uncertain emotions that erupts when not controlled, has made me question every other thing that other people give me. See, the truth here is that I met a girl and did like her, but for some reason I didn’t feel like I could give her the love that I have because I don’t know how to. My Mom left my Dad because he was so miserable, and I was scared it was going to happen to me too. He was miserable in a sense that he didn’t have a plan for his life, and I feel like I’m being the same as him even though I hated that aspect of him.

So, tell me, how can you actually consider something as a “home”? Because to me, wherever I go, I will always look for that “home” and will always end up not finding it. And deep inside I am scared. Scared that maybe I am looking for this in the wrong places, or that maybe I’ve skipped past it, or lost it.