There is an old proverb that says, “Home is where the heart is.” If that is true, then I do not have a home. What I have, to quote the comedian George Carlin, is “a place for my stuff.” That’s what my apartment feels like: a place for my stuff.
It is disturbing when the house you grew up in no longer feels like home. It is the same physical building, but everything about the interior has changed. When I step inside, it feels like I am walking into someone else’s home. I am.
My mother passed away in 2007. The home I grew up in now belongs to my father’s new wife. (Note: I mean this figuratively, not literally or legally). Don’t get me wrong. I am happy that my father has someone new in his life. I genuinely like his new wife and I get along fairly well with her family. Still, I cannot help but feel like a proverbial third wheel when I spend certain holidays at home.
These days, the only time I really feel “at home” is when I visit with my family in Oceanside at Christmastime. If I didn’t have any emotional ties to where I am, I would consider moving down there and start a new life for myself.