“Maybe home is nothing but two arms holding you when you’re at your worst.” –Yara Bashraheel

A dark hallway. A giggle here, a soft snore there. Then from the end of the hall, a soft sob. Room 317.

This night was not so different from the last few. Unlike many others, I did not cry because I was homesick. I cried because I was not–because there was no sense of home for me. I felt no feeling for the home where my parents were, but no inclination for where I was now. I had no right to be where I was; I had no history here. I was one of millions, and I was not one who had a claim to this “home”. I was certain that no one else could possibly feel the way I did, and the more I thought about it, the guiltier I felt.

“I’m not supposed to feel this way.”

As if any feelings anyone might have are invalid. I know that now, in retrospect. But I felt guilty. I was supposed to miss home, to want to go back, right? That’s what everyone around me said. But I didn’t. I felt detached from everything and everyone.

So I garnered an almost unhealthy obsession with this notion that I was meant to be elsewhere. Just not here. I was so certain leaving high school that this place, this fresh start would solve things. Pictures and words took me to other places. Places where I felt like I belong. To be honest, these places were mostly abroad in Europe. Where I imagined I’d be far enough away to escape my past, because Vancouver wasn’t far enough away. Not that my past was dark or haunted, I just wanted to leave it behind.

The feeling would come and go as it pleased, without regard to me. Some days the thought of “home” would consume me. Others, I’d be too preoccupied with school and friends to give the darkness in my head another thought. But some nights, like this one, I would go sleepless, silently crying into my pillow.

The year passed, the summer went, and I was back at school, preparing for another year.

Then I met someone. Not be cliché, but I was drawn to him. I opened up to him, told him my dreams and desires, told him my fears, and shared some of the darkest parts of mind with him. He didn’t always have much to say, but he would hold me in his arms, and it was in those moments that I felt like I was at home.

Commentary

In a depressing turn of events, this story is based on a short period of time in first year residence at UBC, in Place Vanier, and then from when I met my partner in second year.

What I talk about in this post is something that I still sometimes struggle with, and I’ve found that when dealing with mental illness, it’s very easy to make assumptions, on both sides of the story: assumptions about people dealing with mental illness, and assumptions when you’re the one battling mental illness.

Here’s a post from my first year when I felt like this, and when I was battling depressing. Please don’t judge my awful writing/complaining. here.

Works Cited

Bashraheel, Yara. Twitter.  Web. 11 June 2014. https://twitter.com/Yarotica.

Lam, Fidelia. “Always happens”. Web. 11 June 2014. http://becauseexposition.tumblr.com/post/6241902511/always-happens.