What does it mean to belong somewhere? How do you learn to feel comfortable? How does someone feel like they have the right to be somewhere?

How do I find home?

Over time I keep thinking “Maybe if I change things to suit me then it’ll feel like mine.” Then all of a sudden I feel like I covered in wiggling snakes of shame. This isn’t my home and it can’t be. I have never had and I will never have a real home.

What makes a real home?

Somewhere it is ok for me to spend a little while talking to my friends without being told that I don’t deserve the space for doing so. I didn’t ask for silence; I asked that people not crack distracting jokes. But that’s not ok to ask for.

All the space here is allocated. I don’t get any of it.

Sure! When we get to that point it’s fine to say that it’s my fault I haven’t properly allocated already. But where?

If we give up on having a separate *bedroom* for the kids we risk CPS backlash. I can’t do that. If we put all the toys in the bedroom the children seem to be physically incapable of picking up.

So here we are.

My space is… the back yard I guess.

I know I’m a whiny, petulant baby. I know that I “should” just be secure and stop being so difficult. It’s not Noah’s fault I’m so damaged. It isn’t ok for me to talk about how I don’t belong here and I feel like I should leave. I feel like I did a great job of setting up a house for Noah and his kids. Now I should go because I am the problem.

I talked to my cousin yesterday after I was already freaking out. Apparently she told her mother (my actual first cousin, since the gal I’m talking to is my first cousin once removed–it’s kind of fun knowing the specific label) that she’s talking to me. My actual first cousin responded with” Why would you talk to her? She isn’t nice to her mother.”

The cousin I’m talking to defended me. She said, “You know what happened to her. No one has to be nice after that happens. She’s the only person in this family who wants to call regularly just to check on me. In years of being out here none of you have.”

Now my actual first cousin and the Auntie who raised me are calling her to check in. To reestablish the dominance of their ties.

I don’t deserve any love.

I am not nice enough to my mother. I should crawl into a hole and die for the shame of it.

I’m sleeping better with everyone in one room.  Not quite 8 hours, but between 6 and 7. It’s not amazing, but it’s better than the week before.

Shame. Sleep. Worth. Home.

I’m scared because the more I feel like I’m not supposed to be here the harder it is to engage with other peoples emotional needs. I’m too busy paying attention to the pain in my belly to focus on the human in front of me. I’m bad and I should go.

I will never ever stop being bad and I should go before I hurt these people more.

The dude in the head shop spent a while evangelizing to me yesterday. He wanted me to know that no matter what I am a liar and a thief and a sinner if I’ve ever done any lying or stealing at all–no matter how young I was.

See, I am a rapist. It can’t be changed. It happened. I am that disgusting piece of shit and there is no redemption.

BUT JESUS DIED FOR ME AND THAT MAKES IT ALL OK.

No. No it doesn’t. Can I please just buy what I came here for and leave to feel like a dirty piece of shit at home instead of having you lecture me about how bad I am?

Because guess what, A, (his name started with an A) you may KNOW that Jesus exists because you made stupid life choices and you survived them so clearly a higher power has a plan for you. Because you tried to drink yourself to death and you survived alcohol poisoning. You walked away from car crashes without a scratch. Clearly you are special.

I didn’t walk away from my father raping me without a scratch. I didn’t walk through my life path doing just ducky with the results of my stupid choices. I carry the pain every day. I’m not saved for some higher purpose.

I’m just still here. Because the good die young and I’m a piece of shit so I might live to be 100.

I know that Noah has gone to great effort to help me feel like I belong here. I know. It isn’t his fault that I don’t feel like this is my house. This is his house. This is the house he bought for hunting. This is his.

I’m just… the prey living in the cage.

I mean, yes and no.

He’s made sure I should be financially stable for the rest of my life with or without this house.

I’m so sad. It’s also day 33 of my cycle. That doesn’t help.