As orphan’s go, I can’t complain. I have pretty much always had a roof over my head, of one description or another. But tomorrow, I am getting a home. A proper one!
I have spent the last four and a half years in share houses (bleugh!), and before that I shared a bedsit with my abusive ex-husband. Before that I lived above the pub I worked in, with the abusive ex, and other pub employees. And prior to that, more sharing. It’s been a long and winding road, and there were times that I thought I would never get here, and would have to build a treehouse in the woods to get any peace.
But tomorrow, at 10:00, I get the keys to a real home that I will share with my partner and no-one else. I can have a shower without queueing/being hurried/having a cold one. I can make a cup of tea without being barged out the way by a flatmate. I can use the washing machine without causing a small war to break out (Ok, this one is an exaggeration) But I can walk around in my PJs without being self-conscious! And when I am sick, I can have a sick day on my own sofa, in my own home. It will be clean and peaceful, and I can call it ‘home’.
Not everyone has really understood my extreme excitement about this. It is quite simple really. The majority of people who grew up with a loving parent/parents had a home as a child. And the family home is always there for them. It’s another option, a fall-back plan. Somewhere to run to when life gets too much. I have never had a sense of home. I have almost always had somewhere to live, but it wasn’t ever mine. It belonged to other people and was on their terms. Which gives you the constant sense that the rug could be pulled from under you at any moment. It is a constant state of powerlessness.
Time to move on. Happy days! And now off to work, I have bills to pay…