Well, here I am, searching for a place to live yet again.
While I still desire a home, at this point I’ll be happy to settle for peaceful living quarters.
I haven’t had a sense of home since I was woken up in the middle of the night by screaming only to find my mother’s blood down the hallway at age six and a half.
Ever since, all I had was living quarters.
Even after my children were born, we moved often enough to never think I had a home proper. You know the kind of place you feel you could settle and grow roots? Every new place was just another temporary place until I could move to Canada.
In retrospect, however, I suspect the lack of a “home” feeling was more because of my PTSD (of which I was only made aware of relatively recently) and less due to the constant moving.
Perhaps that’s the main reason coming to Canada didn’t feel hard at all. Sure I was sad to say good bye to family and friends but the move itself was not hard, scary or difficult. It all makes sense now.
The closest I had to growing roots was the 13 years I spent in Ottawa, despite the fact that even there I moved quite a lot. Seven places in total.
Heh, one of those times I had to move out because of my very sweet – but unfortunately very fond of fish- roommate who would cook fish every day. Every day! You see, the smell of fish makes me sick. I spent all of the time I was “home” barricaded in my room, trying not to die. Being chemically sensitive sucks big time!
I used to tell my therapist in Ottawa that all I wanted was a little place I could call home. With a little garden where I could sit and draw while listening to the birds sing. Having a little pond would be an added bonus with cream cheese frosting and a cherry on top, all sprinkled with pixie dust.
Ask my therapist. I must’ve said it at least a gazillion times during the ten years I went to therapy with him.
I neither need nor desire a big house. My joints are too old to go up and down stairs cleaning floors, windows, bathrooms, bedrooms and the likes.
Just a small, ground flat with a small garden.
You know, a little patch of green with some shade and enough room for a couple of chairs will do just fine. I’ll provide the butterfly, bird and squirrel food. I would be very happy in such a place.
It didn’t happen in Ottawa.
But what do you know. For a while, I thought I had struck gold here in Windsor. When I filled out the application for my current place, I didn’t even know it had a backyard. And what a beautiful backyard it turned out to have. To my eyes, it is something straight out of a fairy tale, ponds included. Sure it was in a state of disrepair but even just a little work proved to do wonders.
There is Japanese maple, a sand cherry, a rose bush and many other small trees and bushes to which the names I know not.
Truly, THE place for me save for my unit being on the second floor.
But there’s birds. There’s squirrels. There’s flowers. There’s a gazebo. There’s two ponds. There’s community cats.
Needless to say Jay and Kaylee were very happy here as well. I often think how much would Satchie have enjoyed the garden. I can picture her getting the zoomies and going up and down the stairs at the speed of light a mind-blowing number of times.
Alas, it could not be.
The next door neighbours decided I committed a grave offense against their very being and they are committed to get me committed to the asylum for the insane.
After spending five days at one of such places, I am now committed to getting the hell out of here.
It is my fate to never gather moss, as it would seem.