Here is another post for the NaBloPoMo home theme. This one’s a little difficult to write about for a few reasons, so bear with me.

In my last “home” post, I wrote about the only place I’ve ever lived by myself. I moved out from my parents’ house to there, because I was partying and coming home late and they weren’t happy about it. Right around the time things started getting unbearable between us, I started seeing an older man who I had met a few months prior. He asked me to move in with him, but I opted for my own place.

Things were rocky for us from the start, but I continued to see him intermittently the whole time I had my apartment. Then one month I didn’t have the money to pay the rent, and I finally relented and moved in with him.

His place was in a tiny town in the mountains, about 45 minutes from actual civilization. It was beautiful country, but it seemed like everyone there was crazy. Must have been something in the water.

I lived up there full-time for about 3 or 4 months, until we finally pushed one another to the limit and couldn’t take it any more. By then I was working a low-paying part-time job, and I couldn’t afford another place of my own. As much as I hated to, I packed up and moved back in with my parents.

In hindsight, that place wasn’t really a home to me at all. I lay my head there every night for a while, but that’s not what makes a home. It’s feeling welcome, being with people you care about (and who care about you), and having some amount of peace inside those walls. I had 2 out of 3 of those things when I lived alone, which wasn’t bad. But when you have none of those things, it’s no way to live.

That’s it for this installment. Next up: Living With the Parents the Second Time Around.