In the Day 3 post, I talked about home and whether being happy on my own, far from home, made me selfish. If you read it, you’d know I sound quite sad and guilty in the post. The post elicited some wonderful comments from my blog-mates and helped me explain myself to myself. I’d like to share one such comment with you. Thanks Annie for this one:
I’d like you to consider the underlined sentence in the above comment, because that brings us to today’s topic.
Home is a person. If you’re lucky, home is yourself.
All my life, I have complained that no one understood me. Not my parents. Not friends. Not cousins. Not nobody. I had tastes I did not find common with anyone else: I loved reading story-books – my mother would call that a waste of money and storage space (Don’t judge her by that, please, because she was all up for buying textbooks. Reading for pleasure was something she did not understand). I liked writing. Almost none of my friends did. I enjoyed solitude, no one else cared.
Most of my life I have spent in futile attempts of finding a person with whom my wavelength matched, someone who could understand me without me having to explain everything. As it is, I am my own best friend. Not so long ago, I joked with a friend, “I’d rather marry myself than someone else.” The best thing about being your own best friend is that you know yourself. You know what pleases you and you know what hurts you. You try to prevent situations which may make you feel bad. You do things for yourself that no one else would do.
Even as a child, I was okay if I had to be away from home without my mother. My mother thought this was a selfish trait. To this day when I go somewhere, though I miss home very much, I can get equally comfortable wherever I am, if I choose to. So hell, yes, home is indeed a person. And I am one lucky gal!
What about you? Is the closest relationship that you have is with yourself? Let me know in the comments.
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