Returning to Self: The Year My House Became a Home

For my next magic trick, I shall try to encapsulate my year.

This year, I borrowed a boy.

He reminds me of a time in high school when I browsed through the shelves in the library, searching for something to spend my free time on, getting enthralled by a book whose title eludes me as I write this. So, I attempted to sneak it out of the library. I should’ve signed it out the proper way, but the librarian wasn’t on seat and I was a cheeky child. The year was 2015. La Casa de Papel hadn’t been made yet, and I was no Professor, so my heist didn’t go as planned. I was caught red-handed, the furious librarian staring down at me and the stolen commodity I’d not-so-neatly tucked between the pages of my own book. I could go on to tell you about the consequence of attempting to gain knowledge, but the boy I borrowed is running out of time.

Like that book from years ago, this boy wasn’t mine to keep; he was just a perfume sample to smell and say, “It’s nice.” He wasn’t meant to stay: he knew it, I felt it, we laughed about it. When I dust the shelves in my memory, I am riddled with the times we shared—the meals, the laughter, the tears, and everything in between. It was easy to lose myself in him because he made me forget.

If I concentrated on the thickness of his hair and the desire in his eyes, I could forget that I was overdue for a trip to Bannex—one I couldn’t afford to take. When reality stared me down,  I could trust him to take me somewhere far away. We built a home on distraction, avoiding the elephants in the room. He was the sturdiest makeshift home I’d ever known, but my shoulders bore the weight of every brick. I was doing all the heavy lifting.

Eventually, I told myself the truth: I would displace the sun and hand it to him if he asked, but he was not my person, and I would always be too much for him. No matter how many bricks I moulded, he was not ready to become a roof. So, I let him go.

It hurt to return him, but it didn’t shatter me. 

I forgot to take his keys, however, so he made a habit of visiting me. I saw him in my smile as I caught my eye in the mirror while brushing my teeth. On my commute to work, I saw his long legs crossing the road. On days when I peeped through the keyhole, I found him looking back at me, and we’d start the dance all over again—two silly, left-footed dancers indulging in bad habits. On the day I finally took his keys, I buried them behind the house, dug them up again, and cremated . . . him, sending him off as the smoke disappeared into the night sky.

I worked a job I deeply disliked. It paid the bills and stretched me, so I tried not to complain. On the easier days, I was thankful for the opportunity to grow. But when the clouds grew dark, the job became a reminder that I didn’t believe in myself enough to take a chance on me—wake up, quit my job, move to a new city, start over. Like Yoo Reum. But recklessness isn’t cheap, so I dilly-dallied, and this self-imposed jail held my happiness like a kite, tethered and never set free. Then, one windy day, I became fed up, picked myself up, quit my job, made a U-turn, shut the door behind me, moved to a new city and watched my kite soar, reaching.

Love saved me.

First, on the day I wrote my resignation letter, tired of counting other people’s money while mine jiggled in stagnation. Second, when I fell off a bicycle and saw my father race to get me to the hospital in time for stitches. A third time, when the woman in my head whispered all the ways that I was worthless, and Tofunmi took me to a Christmas carol that drowned her voice. And again, on sign-out day, when Zigwai and Peculiar said, “No one left behind.” That sense of belonging and genuine love held me up, just like the three-woman group chat on Instagram reminds me that no matter how far gone I am, regardless of the amount of dirt I’ve rolled in, there is love at home and there is water, waiting to cleanse me.

Still, with all this love surrounding me, I draw a blank every time I am confronted with the “Who are you?” question. How do I explain that, aside from the fact that I am the sum of the things I have liked, the places I’ve been, and the people I’ve encountered, I remain unsure? I read somewhere that the only thing that truly happens to people is other people, and it is a profound truth that I hold dear. How else can I explain my ability to be a mirror at best and a personality fraud at worst?

How do I explain that I have never felt whole? That when it comes to me, something always seems to be missing. I am in constant search of a place to belong, a person to call home. Before today, I have never admitted this. Self-abandonment is a heavy weight to bear, so I lock it up and travel, finding makeshift homes that shield me from just enough rain and a little too much sun. But the thing with temporary homes is that they are never really yours.  On scorching days, you’re sent out as an offering to the atmosphere. Your absence giving the air inside a chance to flow freely. When everyone's teeth are chattering and there is no more space by the fireplace, you are expelled so there is more blanket to go round. After being expelled one too many times, I dragged my feet back home, unlocked the door, and half-willingly confronted my life. Some days are harder than others, but I am determined to come home to myself.

The year 2023 was a whirlwind of activities, but if there's one thing I’ve learned, it’s that love knows my name and it won’t let me go. Even on days when I allow myself to wallow and I cannot see my own light, love is there, waiting with outstretched arms for me to come home to it. Next year, I hope to confront my life with this truth in mind. To live in less fear, embracing all the beauty and chaos my existence brings, because I am certain that love—whether borrowed, given, or found—will always save me.

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