I haven’t been home in two and a half weeks. In a couple of days, I will load my car and make the journey home - a four and a half hour drive which will be filled of thoughts like, “okay you need to do laundry and figure out some food and you need to set your alarm again and hopefully the shredded cheese you left in the fridge is still fine.” I will order takeout upon my arrival home - the groceries I amassed on the way are simply essentials to get me through the night and the limits of Sunday shopping in rural New Brunswick.
And I’ve enjoyed my time off and away. I did catch a cold from a nephew, but despite it knocking me down a bit, it also forced me to rest in a way that I really wanted to during this vacation. It made me slow down, sit, lie about. I saw family and friends, and as I promised myself, I set up shop on several couches. I drank tea and beer and cranberry gingerale. I read many books and played Pokémon and Lego and painted with my nephew. I went for a walk with a friend, a lunch out with another friend, saw a cousin, stomped a sibling in crib twice in a row. I‘m better for this break: I feel peaceful and rested in a way I haven’t in years. Will that be erased on Monday, the second I open my inbox and/or try to remember what PubMed is? Maybe. But maybe not.
The thing that has been missing in my vacation travels has been space I have ownership over. I’m positively craving an escape back to my own apartment, where all the dishes are mine, where the fridge is set up the way I like it, where the TV is on my Netflix and the bed has my pillows on it. I’m giddy thinking about the drawers of my clothes and my books on my shelves. The rugs on the floor are ones I picked out.
I miss my space.
It’s not like I don’t have some connection to the spaces I’ve been in, or even no ownership entirely. My parents still live in the house they moved to nine days before I was born; I don’t even need to have my eyes open to navigate that space, even though it has changed here and there over my lifetime. When I slide into the back door, my body assumes old patterns and habits. The glasses are in the same cupboard; here are the snacks in the same spot. I don’t have to think about how to interact with that space, because my body knows it so well. But of course, I don’t live there anymore, and when I walk down the hallway to the room which used to be mine - there’s a computer there now. A chair. My dad’s camera. And only a few traces of me left. So I sleep in the spare room, a room that was originally mine, then my brothers’, and now just there. In that room, I feel the way I’ve become detached from that house.
The second house was my in-laws’, who have never been anything but kind and welcoming to me, who have made me comfortable in their home for many years. They moved into this house after my partner and I began dating; I know it well. Here too, I have patterns and habits, and my body remembers the different chairs and places I’ve lounged. It knows where the hot tub is and where to find the drinks in the cold room. It does not, however, have a strong handle on where all of the dishes go and I fear my mother-in-law is still sorting out what I did when I unloaded the dishwasher.
I like that house. I feel safe and relaxed there, even when nephews are demanding my attention and food. But again, I don’t live there and never have.
The third place, where I sit today, is my partner’s apartment. This is the closest to my own place, though my partner moved into this apartment in August, and I’ve been trying very hard not to simply rearrange everything to the way I want it. I’ve lived alone for too long, I don’t know how to compromise anymore. I hope to someday live in this space, and so I’m a little freer than I might be - but I’m also deeply conscious of the fact that I don’t live here and it’s not my place.
I wouldn’t sort the cupboards like that and the shelves that the towels are on isn’t going to work for me. This apartment feels like it was built for a tall person, which works for my partner, but I’m 5’3” and feel miniature in it. There’s no stool here right now - I will have to get one. I don’t like where the TV is, I think it should be on the other wall.
I miss being in command of my surroundings. As a visually impaired person, it’s important that I feel comfortable and familiar in a space, and all of these fulfill that. But I don’t have a say in how those spaces are set up, and what I miss, what I’m looking forward to going home to, is a space set up for my needs. One that exists at my height. One that has the counter organized the way that makes sense to me.
I don’t want to wish away the tail end of my vacation. But I’m looking forward to doing yoga on my own yoga mat, and drinking water from my glasses.
Such a beautiful post, Alison. I love your reflections on the places that have been home, and am entirely with you when it comes to wanting to be in your own surroundings, where everything is just-so, engineered by you FOR you, and where you feel most comfortable. Dorothy was right: there's no place like it.
I know what you mean. I was homeless for a few years. There's nothing like having a place that's yours. My wife and I are not rich, we live in a cheap apartment, but I'm always happy to come home.