The past two weeks have been rough, and I’ve been feeling homesick. But after some reflection (I had lots of time for reflection), I realized that I wasn’t missing Vancouver as much as my family, and wasn’t missing my parents’ house as much as a vague idea of home. Is this the birthday blues? Probably.
I guess it’s because my family moved around so much, at least once every few years, when I was growing up, that I never really got attached to any one place, and then I developed that same attitude once living on my own. The only place that I really vaguely miss as “home” is a tiny studio-type room inherited from a person who had a much cooler life than me, and in which the only interesting thing that happened was some adventures in somebody else’s sex life. And I don’t even really miss it, it’s just the place that felt most like home of all the places I’ve lived, even though I was miserable in it.
Maybe this is why my room is always a mess, and I never seem to be able to commit to actually decorate and arrange a place to my liking. If everywhere I live feels like a temporary stop on the way to something else, why bother?
And maybe (forgive me, but I did study psychology after all) that incapability to commit & attach myself to an apartment is part of the reason I find it so difficult to stay in one city or even one country for too long. I have some vague hope that eventually I will find a place that feels like home, but maybe it’s just not in the cards and I will spend all my life searching.
Then again, constantly experiencing new places? It’s not a bad way to live.