My room, with walls the color you dream the ocean has, looks the same. My bed has not moved nor have the garbage bags of clothes and g-d knows what else from move-out day. I walk out of my room and the house is silent. My mom is at work, my dad is at work, brothers are at school and I’m just standing there. All of those times in London when I said I was looking forward to going “home”, what did I mean? No, really, I’m genuinely trying to figure that out because I have no idea what the word “home” means to me anymore. What I missed the most were my friends who became my family, from school. Does that make sunny (and a lot of the time, snowy) upstate New York my home now? Does that mean that this summer, I’ll just be counting down the days until move in day? I am a guest in my own house. I come and go as I please and my family continues to go about their lives, as if I’m up at school. This isn’t me begging for attention in no way shape or form. All this is is me trying to make sense of what I’m feeling. Frankly, I can’t find the words for that feeling that I get when I wake up- even before my parents and brothers leave for work and school- that I’m all alone, that I’m not even there. I can’t even count the number of instances since I’ve been home that I’ve felt like I’m outside of my own body.

When there are no words to describe this feeling, how do I put it into words?

How do I process hurtful words that my family says at me?

Why am I itching to get out of there yet, I find myself never wanting to leave?

How do I even look at myself in the mirror when I’m blamed for my brother’s behavior?

My room is a room that I sleep in. My bags from London haven’t been fully unpacked and my clothes and things from the fall semester are still in garbage bags. Every day, I find a reason not to “clean” my room. Every day, I do the same thing. Nothing has changed for the past three-ish weeks. Yes, there are days I’m with my friends. These are the days I wish I had every day and the thought of going back “home” on the train honestly makes me a bit sad. Why does such a fantastic few hours spent with my favorite people, eating good food, exploring the city, have to end? Here’s the thing, I never want it to end. I think it can go on forever and that I’ll be able to avoid that train ride back. Those are the best days. I cherish those days more than my friends can possibly imagine because I know that eventually, the sun goes down and I have to go.

500 words later and I still have no idea what I wanted the end game of this article to be. Maybe I thought that I could find clarity and ease in the fact that I’m not alone when I say I don’t know where “home” is anymore. “Home” is an alien concept to me and I don’t know how to return back to earth.