Home

A place in between living and not living, a place in between Here and There; a place that is almost, but not quite. A place that is not so much a place as it is a feeling, a feeling that is not so much a feeling as it is a longing; a longing to come home. 

It’s on these lonely highways at three o’clock in the morning, a dizzying haze of homesickness and nostalgia washing over me – candlelit windows illuminating wraparound porches in the countryside and city skylines casting a spotlight over the ostentatious glamour of a life never afforded me – that I come to realize my home is here, right along the jagged edges of Nowhere and Somewhere. Dry, cracked hands gripping the steering wheel, I glance over my shoulder to see an old, beat-up brick red SUV take Exit 49 onto a dirt road and wonder what it must feel like to be free of these endless nights spent searching for something that can’t be found. The only damn thing to find out here is a chronic case of highway hypnosis and a speeding ticket or two.  

A desperate longing for something I never had — for a home, a real home — is a feeling I know quite well, so well in fact that I think I’ve made a shelter for myself somewhere in between the nothingness; a makeshift home that lacks four walls and a roof but has worn out leather seats and an indescribable power to make you feel safe, in spite of the looming realization that these winding pavements will never lead you anywhere but right back to yourself. The blinding neon green of the road signs and yellow striped lines against the blackness of the night stretch out like a bad omen before me, leading me on in a dull haze that I’m not quite sure I even want to escape.  

Little abandoned towns rush by in a blurred frenzy outside my window by day, and lavish suburban neighborhoods with freshly mowed lawns and basketball nets towering over shiny Italian sports cars and sleeping purebred dogs beckon to me by night. Through the dimly lit windows I catch glimpses into the lives of strangers, watching small snippets of heartwarming moments take place without me like a feel-good, G-rated movie I wasn’t chosen to be cast in. I watch as they sit in front of their TVs with bowls of popcorn spilling over onto leather couches, and I swear I can almost hear them shouting out the answers to whatever family gameshow happens to be on (fun fact, it’s almost always Jeopardy. I’ll take “What is the meaning of all this?” for $300, Alex). I see them passing the mashed potatoes around the dinner table and wonder what mundane topics are occupying the spaces in the dining room that someone like me could never hope to fill. “How was school, honey? Did you do anything fun today?”, I hear as the teenaged girl sitting with her phone beneath the table glances up from texting just in time to catch the gravy from dripping onto the white tablecloth.  

Words I never heard growing up.  

Words my mother never bothered to ask me because she was too busy playing the part of the chronic victim to give a damn about how her child was doing, what her child was doing, or who her child was doing these things with. I’ll admit, I gladly threw myself right into the enticing arms of troubled company and bad decisions growing up, but can you really blame me? From my experience, bad company is better than no company, and even though the sound of clinking bottles on a Friday night never came remotely close to touching the void inside my heart, the feeling of waking up to a life-altering migraine and a random stranger in the right side of your bed beats waking up alone every time.  

I guess you could say the old saying “misery loves company” is true; what no one tells you, however, is that sometimes company invites misery right to its front doorstep because it quite likes the feeling of being miserable. The feeling of having nothing and no one left to lose is a powerful drug no one ever truly intends to use, but immediately after that first hit you come to find you’re trapped in an unrelenting addiction that cannot simply be broken overnight (trust me, I’ve tried quitting it more times than I can count). 

So how, exactly, did a weary soul like me end up driving around aimlessly with a full tank and an irresistible need to be someone or somewhere else, you ask? Well, as any good story, it all started when I was born (sort of). 

Let’s face it, a soul like mine was never meant for greatness any more than the sky above us was made to be anything but blue. Born out of wedlock and into a place with four walls, a roof, and an incredible lack of the feelings we often associate with “home”, I was immediately thrown into this game we call life with a severe disadvantage and an insatiable ache to run away; to pack my bags (which consisted of nothing more than a dollar store toothbrush, a pair of flipflops and some t-shirts four sizes too big for my bony frame) and run far, far away from everything I’d ever known. Hell, I didn’t even care if I died along the way, so long as I wouldn’t have to fall asleep on mosquito bitten sheets and a wake up the sound of my parents’ marriage falling apart faster than the wreath hanging outside our door that ironically read “Home Sweet Home”.  

All I know of security is the ability to run and hide at the slightest sound, cowering in the farthest corner of my closet at the “click clack” of approaching footsteps. All I know of permanence is a jagged scar above the soft tissue of my left cheekbone; a lingering sense that something inside of me is missing or that maybe it was never really there in the first place. All I know of touch is a meager pat on the back and the words “I’m proud of you” pouring out of grimaced, mocking lips like the sticky black tar that seeped from the cigarettes my father smoked in ill-tempered succession to keep him from leaving us. All I know of compromise is a melting ice cream cone on a hot summer day; a nonverbal apology for all the sharp words thrown at me whenever I stumbled right into the crossfire of one of my parents’ many fights; not even the sweet taste of vanilla or bittersweet of remorse was ever enough to heal me of my afflictions. All I know of love is a dusty old record player playing “Love Me Tender” by Elvis Presley in the far corner of the music shop I went to after school to avoid having to meet my father’s wrath whenever he got home from his “long” day (every day was a long day, apparently) at work in the evenings. All I know of coming home is absolutely nothing.  

Growing up in an unstable environment and being forced to learn the ropes of life all on your own, it comes as no surprise when you wake up 20 years in the future with unpaid taxes scattered on the floor, the ropes of life tied around your neck and a burning knot in your stomach that no amount of alcohol could ever come close to touching. Stumbling around aimlessly – hair damp from your morning shower and old sweatshirt sporting the logo of a college you never went to – in a world not made for you, you begin to wonder why you’re even here in the first place. Looking out the window, you watch the way the neighborhood kids speed past your unkempt lawn – helmets askew and “vroom-vroom” sounds echoing their dramatic movements of gripping an invisible steering wheel and punching the gas – on their brand-new bikes, and your heart begins to ache to be so free as a child with nothing to do on a cloudy Tuesday morning but pretend they’re the newest participants in the Indy 500. Suddenly, the idea came to me that I, too, could “vroom-vroom” my way out of this life that never had anything more to offer me than a weekly paycheck and an 8’x10’ cubicle overlooking a town I always hated.  

Next thing I knew I had my bags all packed (bags full of brand name clothes that never filled the gaping hole in my chest any more than the dollar store toothbrush and the worn flipflops from my past) and was headed out the door, ready to receive whatever this godforsaken life had to give me, if anything.  

So here I am, driving along The Highway to Absolutely Nowhere; a lovely place where all the road signs laid out before me read, “You already missed your turn to get out of this place. You should’ve left 13 years ago”, and the crumpled map in my hand whispers, “You don’t have the slightest clue where you’re going. Just put me down already and stop pretending you have someplace to go”. Great, not only are inanimate objects talking to me, but they make some good points. Frustrated, I clench the side of my blazer with the tags still attached (a blazer I’m only wearing to serve as a prop for the one-man show I’m putting on, for myself as much as anyone, titled “I’m Just a Normal Adult Going to Work an Agonizing 9-5 Office Job. I’m Definitely Not One of Those Abnormal Adults Running Away from Home like a Child or Anything Like That: The Sequel”) and wonder who the hell I’m trying to fool. I walk out of the nearest gas station a few minutes later with a family-sized bag of Hot Fries and stuff the blazer in the sticky trash can covered in Mountain Dew and some kind of melted candy that looks like Skittles.  

Back on the highway, I find myself stuck in a monotonous loop of traffic signs and cars rushing past in a blurry daze, always seeming to be moving so much faster, going so much farther than me despite driving at the same speed; they all seem to be moving with a purpose, a purpose that I can’t quite put my finger on (probably because it’s coated in Hot Fries dust). I stick my arm out of the window, embracing the freedom that’s brushing past my fingertips at 67 miles per hour, and watch the sunset wave its final, dazzling goodbye to me in the rearview mirror. How many times I’ve tried to chase sunsets just to discover that they have access to parts of this universe that my 2012 black sedan (with screechy tires from God knows what year) will never be able to touch. How I wish I could just drive right into that sparkling light and never look back. As the orange and pink hues begin fading out into a deep, purple haze behind me, I sigh a dramatic, heaving sigh as I realize I’m stuck; stuck in traffic on a four-lane highway that only leads me in circles, stuck in a one-man production called “Life” that I never wanted to be cast in.  

I watch in slow motion as a minivan filled to the brim with people sporting a “Peace, Love, and Good Music” bumper sticker drives past, and I study the outlines of their smiling faces through the tinted windows. I wonder what it might feel like to be in there with them, 7-11 Slurpee in hand and a fullness in the right side of my chest; a feeling that to this day I still can’t understand. I wonder where they’re going, and imagine their eco-friendly suitcases piled up in the back of the van, on their way to some beach in the Bahamas or a Coachella festival or something. I watch the wavy blonde hair of the girl closest to my window bounce in time to some undetectable rhythm and wonder what she’s hearing. Coming to a rolling stop at the light up ahead, I bob and sway my head along to music I can’t hear (not just any music, but good music, like the hippie van next to me demanded) and pretend for a moment that I’m there with them, beaded bracelets on my wrist and round sunglasses hanging off my nose, on my way to a real destination and no longer just driving around in monotonous circles. I glance over again at the passengers’ smiling faces and for a brief moment catch a glimpse of that place I’ve been searching for all these years; for a brief moment I catch a glimpse of home. Just as quickly as it came, the light we’re stopped at turns green and I watch the only home I’ve ever known take off going 90 on the 70mph freeway and into the distance, never to be reached again.

I take the next exit and begin to head west toward Nowhere and Somewhere, a dizzying hazy of homesickness and nostalgia washing over me.