Where is Home?

My last blog got me thinking, which is sometimes a dangerous thing. Where is home? Where do I feel "at home"? Is this some mythical place that only exists in fairytales and in the minds of the neurotically insane acronyms?

The above picture is very similar to drawings I repeatedly did as a child. Whenever I had the inkling to draw, I would draw a house with a car and a tree with swing. That picture was never a reality growing up, so I deduce that the picture was my desire for such. (go Freud!)

When we moved to Vista at age 9, we rented a house on the edge of town. A real single family house. And sure enough there was a tree, and we put a swing in it. For 9 months we lived in this real house while my parents marriage fell apart and my father moved out. Being 9 I felt that my family problems were my fault because I was a bad girl and Satan pounced on me. My parents got back together because they couldn't afford to pay rent on two places and still raise 3 kids, so we moved to some apartments never to be in a real house again. We moved 4 more time over the next 8 years.

At 19 I got kicked out and moved into a place with my roommate-come-boyfriend and again had a single family house, all 800 sqare feet of it. That pink drug house turned into my nightmare and at 21 I moved into my dad's basement and got baptised. That was the best day of my life.

Married at 24, rented a place by the beach. At 25 we bought a real single family house and tried to make it a home. A defunct dry cleaners and $300k later, I still have no flooring and we're about to walk away. 3000 miles away. To rent another place with the goal of a real home with real floors and actual screens and a porch to sit on a swing and drink lemonade, watching the kids play in the yard.

Is that really so much so ask for? I hope not.