Cliches annoy me. They roll too easy off the tongue and involve little thought. But they exist because they are mostly true.

They say that:

Home is where the heart is.

It’s like a stupid sign I would hang in the living room as a decoration. I had certainly bought into that idea without putting thought into. Like, yes my address where I live is also where my family lives.  And until the divorce the idea of “Home” was simply a structure with walls and roof. A home was a thing you paint and fill. Something you pay for and something you can sell. I was confused. Now I would define that as a “House”.

When I left him I referred to myself as “Homeless”. And that was, at the time because I didn’t have a place that was “mine” anymore. No tangible object to go to that was my own. But that popular phrase, or at least the popular application of that phrase is wrong. I was definitely “Houseless”. But if we consider the idea of a home being more of a state of mind, then yes, I was also homeless.

That man shredded my heart, it was in pieces and strewn in every direction, I was frantically picking up the pieces trying desperately to  be whole again. I often spoke to those who would listen about how my heart was so broken I felt there was nothing left. So if home really is where the heart is, I truly was homeless.

Slowly I managed to accept my fate, and learn how to be strong. I found that despite my profound darkness I was surrounded by an abundance of love and I would fix my sad little broken heart and I was not homeless. I was home.

My little boy and his sweet face were my home. Where ever we  were together, I was home. That tiny life that I grew and nurtured had helped me fix my wounded heart, how silly of me for not seeing that it was him that had stolen my heart after it was destroyed. He would look at me with his big sparkly eyes full of curiosity and love and I felt every problem I was thinking mute inside me. I would wake up to a house full of love, not the house I thought I would end up back in but my parent’s house. My dad brewed coffee and had cartoons on for when the little guy and I came down. My mom was waiting at the end of the stairs for her morning hug. Love. Everywhere. I am home. Yeah I don’t have a place that is “mine”, maybe one day I will figure that out. But most importantly my baby boy is enveloped in nothing be love.

Those 3 nights a week when he is gone, those are the hardest. That is when I truly feel lost, homeless, like someone stole a piece of me.

Those are the nights I lean on J. When I am with him I am home. As I am with the little guy. Something about him fills me up and I am overflowing with love. My fragile little heart rests peacefully in those moments, safely where it belongs.

So now, instead of feeling sorry for myself that I do not have a house, I bathe myself in all the wonderful, beautiful loving beings I am surrounded by.

Home is certainly where the heart is.

 

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