For the first 18.5 years of my life, I lived in the same bedroom. Yes, you read that right. Not only has my family owned the same house since my oldest brother was 1, but I’ve called the same upstairs room my own from cradle to college. When I first began the college search 4 years ago, I knew I wanted to go out of state – not necessarily because I was dying to get away from my family, but because I wanted to explore another part of the country. So 3 years ago, I packed my bags and moved from Washington to North Carolina, just about as far away as I could possibly have gone.
Coming home now, which is a relatively infrequent occurrence, is always a slightly strange feeling. I’m almost at the point where I mentally refer to my childhood home as “my parent’s house”, with my apartment in North Carolina being my “home”, which feels pretty weird. I feel like I’ve evolved so much over the past three years in college, which has been mirrored by changes in housing each year. Yet when I come back to Washington and sleep in my untouched childhood bedroom, I fall back into feeling very much like a kid. I have total independence at school (in terms of day to day actions – financially I am certainly not independent), especially over this summer where my only obligations have been working and crossfit, and feel almost like an adult. It’s strange coming home and being expected to do things.
I write this from my Washington home, where I’ve been since June 24th and will be until the night of the 5th. I came home specifically to go to Paradiso, a 2 day music festival in the Washington gorge (an absolutely amazing venue), but that only took up Friday to Sunday, so I’ve had a lot of time to just hang around the house with my parents and dog. Hence the strangely sentimental or whatever you might call it musings above. I love coming home, yet once I’m here I am equally ready to go back to school immediately and stay here forever. It’s confusing.
Okay, enough about being home.