Some of this feels like it may be stuff I've already said. If so, smile and nod and pretend like it isn't.
When I moved out of the house back in late January I knew I needed to find a cheap apartment, preferably on the other side of town from the ex and the kids so I wouldn't be running into them at the grocery store or whatever. I looked at the same place RS and Therese live, but they didn't have one ready, so I ended up renting one in the same complex where me and the ex lived when we first moved into town.
There's probably some interesting psychology there that I have no real interest in exploring. Because it's probably pretty screwed up.
When I first moved in here, I completely hated it. It wasn't home. It wasn't the house I had bought and worked on. My kids weren't here. My stuff wasn't here - or at least not all of it. It's tiny and my neighbors are loud and uncouth. I hated it and didn't see how I could ever NOT hate it.
But then time went by. I remember telling people (probably on here, if I looked) that it wasn't home and never would be - it is a place of exile. But, as far as places of exile go it's pretty comfortable and nice.
Then time went on. And I got the rest of my stuff here - which, as I talked about last week was a hard thing and had a lot of emotional baggage, but at least it's all HERE. And that's important. I found myself this morning, as I cleaned the place, actually feeling like it is home. And being proud of it. I think I have a nice place. RS and Therese can comment on that, because they've been here, but I like what I've done with it. Not that I'm going all gay interior decorator, like the Ex's new BF, but I think it's nice.
And it's now home.
I think for me that old saying is a bit different: Home is where my books are. They are here, and it's nice.