I don’t know how to go home now. Not because it is not a home—because it is—only it does not tie my stomach into knots. It doesn’t detonate me with every creak in the floor. I don’t shower in this place as if drowning in a creek, which runs south into the woods. There are less “woulds” here; they take longer to find here since they are camouflaged before the “like.” Licking butter off my white bread at the dining table does not sizzle with blasphemy the way the trash bin used to treasure uneaten meals.
This garden—I mean this container of fresh fruit—does not swallow me before I chew it. I choose more fruit in this place. I chose the décor in this place. No one crosses my boundaries in my home. The air in winter is sometimes cold, though, so I turn heat on and don’t sit across from Guilt. But there is Warm here; I don’t hear any dry heaving at night here. Hardly make anyone cries Sadness here. I learned to cry when I needed to. I learned how to feel anything other than Numb, am Happy in this place and it feels Good. Good, not “good enough,
i guess“—just good.
That is scary to admit. that’s okay. New places—especially houses—are scary. so, I might not know how to go without fear. However, I know how to go home where I finally met Safe and Gentle.