a year ago
I had to go home to recover for a few days while I was on bedrest. Prior to this, I hadn’t had an extended stay at home in years, mostly quick day trips and the occasional weekend.
I was nervous because for as long as I can remember my childhood home was never the place I wanted to be. I like to joke that I knew in kindergarten that I had to get the hell out of town.
I always felt constricted at home, never completely at ease in my own skin. I was forced to bear the burdens of my parents’ expectations and strict upbringing. I just wanted to live my own life, on my terms, and I knew that would never happen under their roof.
So here I am, six years later, running home to be taken care of by my mother. I was tired of being alone all day while my husband worked and I really needed the help.
The home I had villainized for years felt strangely comforting and familiar. Being able to smell (and taste) Mommy’s cooking transported me back to the days when I used to do my homework at the kitchen table while she prepared meals for us. Sleeping in the room I shared briefly with my sister made me remember simpler times before adulting became a necessary nuisance.
My parents bought the house right before I left to attend graduate school and start my new independent life. I lived three tumultuous months there before I packed up my things and left without looking back. They didn’t want me to go and I could not wait to leave.
This time going home did not feel like a chore or an obligation, it felt very much like when Annalise ran home to escape her troubles in How to Get away with Murder even though she was haunted by the ghosts of the past.
I went home with trepidation, not sure what to expect. I warned my husband to pick me up immediately if anything went down. I ended up staying an extra day.
As a child, home was a place of uncomfortable memories, yelling, nights spend sobbing in my pillow.
As an adult, it was returning to my mother’s bosom, being surrounded by my tribe who still loved me despite all of my best efforts.