Homesick

I remember being really little...maybe 4 or 5...and sitting in my brother’s room on the bottom bunk with my adoptive mother. I even remember the yellow comforter we were on from Esprit and the blue metal frame of the bed. We had a fun house. Colorful and creative. Kids we had over envied our house. But I remember telling my adoptive mother, “I want to go home.” And I remember exactly her response as if it were yesterday, “But Linn, we are home.” I remember exactly the way she said it and feeling as if I hurt her feelings...I didn’t mean to...it had nothing to do with her. I don’t remember what brought it up...we weren’t fighting...I just remembered having this craving for home...for belonging...safety. I couldn’t put words together with feelings yet. I didn’t know enough. Childhood was such a prison to me. Psychologically and physically. When you’re that young you don’t know enough to know your own needs...to know what you deserve...to even know what you want...and you’re too young to fight for yourself even if you did know any of those things. It’s like you’re a prisoner from your own mind and body. You’re at the mercy of the adults in your life. I remember trying to run away but she grabbed me and I couldn’t break free. I wanted desperately to be free...and I wasn’t even sure of what I wanted to be free from. I just felt it. And it took up to just a few months ago to figure it out.

Escaping childhood is like wandering through a dark maze full of broken mirrors. And if you ever get out, it’s not like the mirrors are fixed...you’re just able to see them for what they really are. I do feel free in so many ways now...almost with a vengeance...not just free from my family, but free from society, free from having to look or sound a certain way, free from the system, but at the same time there’s still the glass from all the broken mirrors scattered everywhere. It’s everywhere. And I’m still longing for home.