Writingbolt's Creation

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I devised a small sign for my current residence to let family and visitors know when I am available or away. It might seem foolish in terms of home security. But, it serves a purpose. At the front and back, there is an extra door which can only be locked from inside; so, if someone is in the house and wishes to block all visitors (welcome-during-daylight-hours or unwanted-of-the-criminal-nature), usually late at night, they can lock the extra door. If I need to get into the house at night, I’d rather not wake people with a phone call (because someone locked that extra door while I was away).

The sign has two sides.

(MY NAME) IS HOME.

and

(MY NAME) IS NOT HOME.

Some days, I get careless (and discouraged) and leave the “not home” side showing when I am actually in the house. And, I’m starting to think I should always leave it that way. Why? Because I don’t feel at home, especially when family is sharing the space. And, when I am alone, the house feels chilly and eerily vacant; I crave companionship. But, ‘not just any companionship; I need people that make me feel comfortable and eager to get active, not threatened if I don’t do what pleases them in the moment, not threatened for being imperfect.

Thinking about the course of my life, thus far, I cannot recall ever feeling at home. If I ever did, it was when I was an oblivious kid who looked up to his parents as heroes. That image faded long ago, when the incessant bickering between my mom and dad became vexing. Even when I was not the wisest kid, my bedroom never felt entirely safe or secure. I never had privacy or my parents’ trust. Collected treasures and my own artistic creations have never been entirely safe from damage and elimination. I’ve felt more at home visiting a rare friend’s house than I ever did with family or on my own. And, with friends, I’ve always been uneasy about becoming too comfortable and pushing my limits.

Come to think of it, I’ve never been comfortable with my own family. When I think of all the family events I’ve attended and all of the trips I’ve taken with family, I don’t recall a single time in which my family did something with me that I liked to do and didn’t complain or rush me. If I have ever gone somewhere I actually wanted to go and/or found something I actually wanted to do, my family always–ALWAYS–finds a reason to fuss, complain and rush me, draining all joy out of the experience and sending me into a recovery spiral when I finally find an ounce of peace and alone time. If I ever felt comfortable sitting on someone’s lap or in their arms (or even just in their presence), it was so long ago, I’ve essentially forgotten.

I often enough find myself drifting into a daydream, a variation of one of the many TV shows I’ve seen. I picture myself with a wife and pets, stepping outside the house to speak with neighbors and venturing off to faraway vacation destinations before returning to my custom-designed comfort zone and art studio. Sometimes, I imagine having enough land to ride horses with my wife. They are refreshing fantasies. But, they lose their charm and make me nauseous when reality reappears.

Reality doesn’t seem to show a sensible path to achieving those fantasies. I mean, sure, there are plenty of advisors who will say it only takes this and that to get there. But, for me, it’s not that straight-forward or simple. I consider myself psychologically challenged. And, there are far too many examples of failure around me to alter my outlook. Only a thread of hope remains. Anything is possible.

I’m not sure how to wrap this up…but I’ll say this. No one comments on my posts, lately. So, you probably won’t even notice. Lights may be on. But, I’m not at home. I guess that makes me a nomad.