I was asked why I wasn’t happy because I am “home”. Home. That is a loose term. If you know me, this is the part where I am rolling my eyes back to last Tuesday.
When Mali was alive, I knew right were home was. I built a life there with my family. Work, schools, ball games, concert recitals, debates, grandchildren being born, chores, dishes, grocery stores, errands, bills and all the other shit on top of making sure everyone in the family was fed and happy. That daily grind of being a wife and mother as well as being a woman in the workforce was mind-numbing and rewarding.
Life just stopped when Mals killed herself. Not in the sense that the world stopped turning. That keeps right on going.
Mali’s suicide paralyzed each member of my family and stopped us from supporting each other. All of us. Life and this idea of home became more like a desert with so little water everything was bound to dry up.
Back to the home thing. The definition of growing roots and raising a family is foreign to me. I have lived in many places as a child and as an adult. It wasn’t until our second child was born did we decided to make roots. That was scary and cool all at the same time. I drank the kool-aid and put myself aside to raise a family with my partner.
I find myself rootless again. No home. Move along, nothing to see here.
I grew up in Northern California. It has always been home to me no matter where I was residing. Now that I am here, I don’t feel home. Southern California was also a home to me at one point. I have friends and family there. Nope, home isn’t here either. What about Sioux Falls? I left everything there; my tattered family, my children, my child’s ashes in the mausoleum, the best job ever, my friends, all of my belongings, except for the clothes on my back. This was supposed to be home. This was the compromise. The place to raise our kids so they would be safe from the dangers of living in an overpopulated, smog-ridden city. Sacrifice, so we would be closer to his Father……..I am going to spare everyone from my cynical musing tonight.
To answer the question “Why am I not happy being home?” Seriously? That can’t really be what you are asking me. You know well enough I am not happy because, what was home was not a place. It was the people I love and will continue to love. Home is the commitment I made as a wife and mother.
Here is an analogy about removing one component of this mythical place called home:
“Taking the meat out of stew, much like removing a piece of your family, doesn’t make much of a stew or a home. The person being served meatless stew is probably not happy about it. The stew meat that was discarded is probably not happy about that either. Unless you go vegetarian then, by all means, shovel that shit in”.
In case you are wondering, that little analogy is all mine.