Now I’m a nomad

I try not to think about it too much because I don’t want to cry.

But I really miss my old house so much.

I wrote this in my old blog in April 2007:

“I need to haul the rest of my stuff out of the old house that we just sold. Two trips have not been enough. I am trying not to think too much about this, which is pretty hard to do when you are dumping things you own into huge plastic bags, but damnit, I’m trying. I’ve learned that listening to music while packing your memories and tearing down dusty postcards from your corkboards helps.

I’ve saved all my crying for when I’m stuck in the dark backseat of my mom’s car while driving away from the house. The rest of the time, I’ve put on a brave face. I’ve always taken pride in how strong I am and this is one of those times when that strength comes in handy.”

Back then, I was planning to write about moving out in a more coherent way – I was even going to write an article about it – but sadly, I never got around to it.

I wrote this in 2007 and I still feel the same way. “I have notes, bits and pieces, but I am not ready yet. Maybe when I am home alone and there’s no one there to see my bawling my eyes out.”

Yes, it’s been two years and I still feel like bawling my eyes out.

You see, it wasn’t just a house.

My grandpa built that house for us. That’s where I learned to walk, talk and sing. That’s where I baked my first cupcakes, my first brownies, my first cookies, my first cakes. That’s where I used to write. That’s the place I went home to after school. That’s the house my grade school friends loved because it had so many doors and it was perfect for hide-and-seek. That’s the house my high school friends loved because the food was always so good. That’s the house my college friends loved because it was so near our school. That’s the place I went home to after a hard day at work. That’s the place I went home to after exploring the rest of the world. That’s the place that offered refuge and comfort after all kinds of heartbreak. That’s the place that offered stability even after my parents split up. That’s where I celebrated so many milestones. That’s where I hid when I didn’t feel like facing the world.

I had rooms there, rooms to choose from, rooms to sleep in, rooms to make messes in. I had closets, shelves, cabinets, even an attic that I could fill with my stuff, with my junk, with the things that I love.

For almost 27 years that house was my house, one of the few constants in my life, the only home I’ve ever known.

Now I don’t have it anymore.

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