Member-only story
Here, waiting for home
published by NuBlaccSoul — stories fom Africa to the World
Home to me means being able to take care of myself at all times. To be in a space that allows me to do that freely. It means opting to have noodles for dinner because I don’t feel like cooking, or when I’m struggling to leave my bed and not having to worry about the next person. Home means warmth, comfort and security.
If I can’t express myself the way that I would like to, I know I’m not home. If I’m scared to have a second serving of ice cream right after my first one because I’m worried that someone is going to complain, I know I’m not home. If I’m wearing a full set of pyjamas and not just pyjama pants and an XL t-shirt, I know I’m not home — meaning, I’m not really comfortable, I’m not being my usual self because I’m in the presence of other people who (I assume) expect me to carry myself a certain way.
I feel most at home, in my room at res’ — so, in other words, in my own space.
It has always been my safe place, here I am at my happiest — when I’m by myself.
The place called home, where I was born, where my parents live, has never felt like home to me. I’m miserable 99%…
