finding home

I wrote this a week ago, before I caught B's cold and was pretty much knocked on my butt for a few days, just in time to learn that both of B's parents were coming to Chicago. Needless to say the visit didn't go well. It started off fine, but then took a turn and just kept spiraling downward. In the end I cried my eyes out because a woman who has never moved, has an army of servants, and people to take care of her when she is ill, said I should always have my home ready for company. Silly, yes. But it still hurts when you try so hard and fail so miserably.

See, here’s the thing. I have serious issues about putting down roots. Remember I have moved 26 times, and as much as I want to deny it, move 27 isn’t that far off. In fact, depending on where B decides to do his internship there could be an interim move this summer (27) and then back to Chicago in the fall (28).

When we moved back to the Bay Area from Austin and the whole notion of b-school was announced I simply stopped unpacking. And then when we ended up having to reapply, I spent an extra year surrounded by boxes. I was beyond miserable. The only thing that saved me was the monthly trips we made to Los Angeles where we stayed in a barebones furnished four-bedroom home.

So here is where the dichotomy sets in. You’d think after that I’d be all over these boxes and had them unpacked within 48 hours of our arrival in the windy city. Far from it.

While yes, I am certainly doing better than last time; it is still a long way from settled. I don’t really practice feng-shi, but I do believe in some of its underlying tenets. One of them being that our space reflects our lives. To look around me it is clear that I am boxed up, distracted, and a bit chaotic. Things are definitely unsettled.

This may sound silly but I still haven’t hung a thing on the walls. Doing so on some level means I am staying. And on some level I am not ready to commit to that.

Part of it definitely stems from being constantly uprooted my entire life. There truly is a part of me that wants nothing more than to live somewhere familiar. Where I know my neighbors. Where I don’t have to find a grocery store or a Target. A place that looks familiar. A place to call home.

Of course it troubles me when people ask where I am from. I don’t relate to the place where I was born. I escaped from there when I was eight. On my Friendster profile, under “hometown” I answered, “this space intentionally left blank”. Seriously.

Again, given all of this you would think I would do everything I could to make where I am feel like home – but if only it were that simple. If only I didn’t remember the pain of leaving, of starting over again. It is exhausting. It is like having your heart pulled from your chest, thrown on the ground, and stomped on. All while you are still conscience, and you stand there watching and you can feel it all as your heart is still connected to you. Ugh!

I wish I knew the key to making this work. I remind myself that I am making progress, but it seems like there is still so much to do. And a part of me feels like I will get it all done just in time to pack it all back up. Irony is not my friend.

Neither is my perfectionism. Truly I am a neat freak. But after so many years of living with someone who isn’t you just get tired. My closets are so organized (well some of them), that they would frighten some people. Really.

And now I have this catalyst of sorts in the form of a potential visit from B’s father. I have to act as if he is coming and just be grateful that either he comes and I am ready, or he doesn’t come and at least I am further along in the process that seems to have become my ultimate mission – finding a place to call home.