From the Attic of Memories ~ Day # 9 (On missing)


Home. 

A feeling I have always longed for and never found. Though in many ways this place gives me a sense of belonging, there is still something amiss. I cannot exactly point my finger as to what is it. I only know, the abyss within my heart refuses to be filled. Last week I longed to be home and that is when I realized the feeling of missing isn’t about a place or a person, it is about the feeling of familiarity. You miss the comfort that familiarity brings along. 


The feeling of being known and to know. Every turn and twist on the streets are known, every pothole on the road seems familiar while every nook and corner seems to have places that are welcoming. The food and their aroma, the shops selling them, the shopkeepers, the autowallahs, the random strangers on the streets – everything is known. And it is this familiarity which you long for! There is no home per se, it is just a bunch of familiar feelings that you crave for. I miss that sense of familiarity in this city. No one knows me. I don’t know anyone. I don’t have any favorite hangout places or favorite food joints. I have no friends or acquaintances. In a way, I don’t exist on the sociographic map of this city.



Change. The only thing that has been constant in my life. Changed cities, friends, jobs, schools and to an extent myself - so much that today, at times I cannot recognize myself. But isn't this the inevitable part of life that we all speak about?

I always dreamt of a home, a place of my own with beautiful large windows and sunshine dancing through every corner. A place, I would have longed to come back to, after facing every battle in the world. A home that would make sure I sleep peacefully at night after running around the whole day to survive. A home, that would a part of my existence. But that dream, like many other of my dreams, never came true.

Growing up in an abusive family, normalized abuse for me. It continued for decades in different forms. From friends to lovers, from bosses to colleagues - every where I went I felt timid and scared. My emotions were always all over the place and I would end up in the same rut of hurt me if you can.  It took me years to recognize this pattern and be able to break it. Today, when loneliness threatens to engulf me, at times, I wonder if the abuse was worth it all. Would that abusive best friend from grade six have been a better companion than this gnawing pain that eats me up on nights that I spend staring at the ceiling endlessly. 

Metamorphosis. The journey has been long and painful. One might be tempted to call it worthwhile in a way , but the worthiness has often been disguised. The journey ahead looks scary and inviting at the same time. My life as of now consists of the following - Hashimoto, love, laughter, work, writing, books and movies. Maybe this is what they call home. Maybe somewhere between those pages is a place called home. Or perhaps in the words of that long forgotten song. 

“At the end of the day, it isn’t where I came from. Maybe home is somewhere I’m going and never have been before.” ― Warsan Shire

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