Home (n): my parent's house, the house I spent most of my childhood in. In some ways it's home: the place I belong so far as this is safe, this I understand and here I know people love me unconditionally even if they don't understand me. But it is not quite home: sanctuary from problems, the one place I long for when the world spins out of control.
Let me go on the record to say that I do love being home. I may not like my parents from time to time, but I love them. This family's a mess of clashing personalities and I'm sick of it, but at the end of the day it's made up of people who care about me, who have parts of them that I can look up to. I've been given a lot, a lot, and I am grateful.
It's just that sometimes being home unsettles me. When I'm here, I'm reminded that I've not grown up as my parents planned; not quite a disappointment, just a deviation. They've adjusted their hopes and dreams, but I still fall short - not quite there yet. There are miles to go, so much more money to put into my education, and when I'm home, there's so little I can do about it. I'm reminded that I'm an ocean apart from the people who get me, and that I'm not trying hard enough to reach out to the people here who might get me too. I'm reminded that my parents have their own opinions that could not be swayed and appalled me at times, and I can't be bothered arguing about it.
"There is nothing like returning to a place that remains unchanged to find the ways in which you yourself have altered." - Nelson Mandela
Maybe it's me. Maybe I've changed too much to fit right back to this place and its rules. I don't know really.
But I do know that being home is nice, lovely even. It's just not quite enough sometimes.
