The meaning of home.

For a long time, it just meant a building with four walls and a bed inside. For the longest time, it meant having a pitfall drop in your stomach upon seeing even a single light on; or even seeing them all off. Home for the longest time meant trying to justify yourself to everyone around you because that’s how home worked. Home for the longest time meant asking permission to do something, even though you’re an adult. Home was not what people say home is supposed to be – it was your own personal version of hell. The stress you felt there pushed outwards onto everything else, and the stress of still trying to find a way to live. It was coming home from a double shift at work after school and being yelled at for sitting down for one moment to eat something so you weren’t shaking when writing essays. Being asked constantly why dinner wasn’t ready by the time they got home when you had barely walked in the door yourself and when you do try to be polite you’re greeted with the same, “Long, tired, hard,” response they always give. Even though you know it’s a lie because that person put you in their position at least once a month when they had jury duty, a doctor’s appointment, or just dragged you along because they needed the vehicle you were driving.

Home was being yelled at late at night when you’re trying to go to sleep, home wasn’t a place you ever wanted to be. It was finding excuses non-stop to NOT be in the vicinity of those four walls where you were belittled, told you lied constantly, and always “broke their heart” when something didn’t go their way. Home was having to be an adult in the relationship from the time you were eight, walking yourself and making sure you stayed on task for homework and snacks. Unless the unruly neighbor came over; you were smitten, always letting them in for cookies, soda and whatever else they wanted, just so later you could escape to their house and stay out with them all night. But getting in trouble for hanging out with him and his mom as well. Needing more responsibility. That turned into taking care of your sibling(s) more and more as the years progressed because the actual adult is “too tired from a long day.” Constantly taking naps while at home and not doing anything. But yelling at you that the house is never clean enough and that you don’t pull your weight, how dare you say things like they don’t understand how much stress you’re under. It was getting in trouble for when you and your sibling did set your spring breaks, and teacher in-service days aside to surprise clean, throwing things that hadn’t been touched in years away; such as the pop tarts from 2005 that were still sitting there uneaten in the pantry and it was now 2012.

It was constantly being told that you’re too fat, not good enough for anybody, that you’re not a good person except on those special occasions where they wanted something. Taking all that criticism from someone who is supposed to love you, and turning it on yourself. To the point of where you hate seeing your body in the mirror, you lose your smile in pictures, and you start lying to the therapist about how fan-fucking-tastic your life is with your divorced parents. Apparently with the father you haven’t had any contact or connection with still meddling in your life; but you know it’s a lie. And you know the games by now. Home was leaving for school early in the mornings because you didn’t want to show up in tears. Home was watching your sibling get off scotch free because you took the blame so they didn’t have to.

Home… was hell.

And then there’s this one person: Waltzing into your life at what seems the most inconvenient time. Getting to know you slowly, but showing how much they care. You still feel the pitfalls in your stomach though, each time you leave this person at the bar and drive to your replacement hell. Finding out where one household inherited their spirit from, and realizing how much needs to change starting with you. But home started to be late night talks at the bar, boots being held on a lap and used as examples of pickups, semis, cars, grain carts, and people. Before you drove away once again; seeing a night light on and wondering how bad it was going to be when you checked your phone for missed messages from the new warden.

“4 New Messages.”

Your phone reads you as you check the screen and groan before unlocking it:

9:45 P.M.

“Where are you?”

10:01 P.M.

“Do you know how late it is?”

10:15 P.M.

“Why aren’t you home yet?”

10:43 P.M.

“Oh boy, you have a lot of explaining to do. And not answering is only making it worse. I’m so sick of all your lies. You need to get out. You better hope to god you find a new place soon. I cannot put up with you any longer.”

You curse under your breath before the tear slips out of your left eye onto your cheek as you get out of the car and re-lock the garage door you had just opened. It was now 11:01 P.M. The drive took longer than it probably should have that night, but the talk around the bar was so good with laughter and jokes; there was no leaving the guys early.

Walking in the door and locking it, taking off your boots as quietly as possible, hanging your keys and bee-lining it to the bedroom you guess you’re still borrowing from them to go to bed.

But this person that waltzed into your life… you want to tell them, lord knows how much you want to tell them:

“You showed me what home is. You showed me that first night I came to your house. You sat there and laughed at me as you taunted me with your broken couch recliner whilst we watched cars being purchased on and off stage at an auction, swapping stories about the ones we knew. You showed me what home was when you teased me about my habit of drinking water saying I was getting a soda instead. You showed me what home was when you told me I was stuck on your couch for the night now that I couldn’t get the recliner to retract. You showed me that at home you should be able to relax and not feel the need to be constantly doing something or the need to go somewhere. You show me what home is when you call me “darlin’ “ or “Honey.” You show me that home is trusting a person with your keys to their pickup when no one else gets them to do errands. You mistakenly called your house “home” to me one night. You tossed me your keys and told me to “run home and grab it.” Also to disregard the disaster that was at home as well. I called bullshit over my shoulder as your house, when even in a mess; is still close to perfect. But I was hung up that you told me to go home. Because slowly but surely, you’re showing me what home is. You show me that home is threats against your life if you do something stupid and scare the shit out of someone who holds true to threats, you’ll get what you deserve. You showed me that home is not having anxiety attacks in the middle of a bar, or even pulling up to a destination. You showed me that I can trust the feeling of home in someone else’s arms to protect me for the night. You showed me that the meaning of home is excitement to be relaxed and not ready to puke your guts out as you pull in a driveway. You make me anxious to return to my new home on a daily basis now. The one I got by myself, to check off my list. To show you that I have my shit together by the time I’m 20. I want to prove that home to you is happiness and that you showed me how to believe in it. I want to prove to you that I’m still worthy of your friendship. To let you know that I’m learning that home feels good and I don’t have to fear it. Home. You taught me the meaning of that…”

As a person you want to thank the one who changed your life to make you realize: Home, doesn’t have to be hell. Home is now bubbling with laughter as your roommate comes home on her birthday to see all the balloons you’ve blown up and starts a war with you. Home is peace and quiet with a little music while she colors and you sketch something with whatever is not still in boxes. Home is trying to find couches and furniture, but making due with sitting on the floor or eating on the bed where the t.v. is temporarily set up. Home is laughing about blankets and shorts and wanting to shoo off the morning doves at 6:30 in the morning because your early alarm has already gone off twice. Home is what that person showed you, and you could never thank them enough for the peace they have instilled in you.

The meaning of home is different for everyone; I’m thankful that my meaning has been able to change. Home is not hell; home is now a solace. He has shown me home in my heart; home is here. Home is peaceful where my heart is.