The unique feeling of “home” is determined by numerous concurrent circumstances for me. It is not dependent on a specific location and people. I have been changing the houses and persons with whom I live frequently. Instead, the noises, the personal belongings, and the ability to be alone for a moment constitute the calm, relaxed sensation that provokes my returning to the residence.
The period of living with the parents was anxious, disturbing, and entirely pessimistic, which continues to affect my visits to the place where I have spent most of my years. I could find consolation there previously as I had no other place to go. Yet, the communication attempts with the parents have consistently failed, resulting in conflicts because of our different mindsets. Night walks in the woods or riding a bicycle along the country road could deliver some comfort and relief. Nowadays, as I moved out, the place feels alien since I spend the whole time in the house during my visits to my parents. They treat me like a guest in their home—in a good sense; they try to be attentive to me and induce dialogue since I stay there for a short time, and they want to extract the maximum of their need for interaction with me. Consequently, I cannot leave the house and be unaccompanied. This inability is the cause of the disaffection I experience every time there.
Although I moved out and changed the environment completely, I suffered no difficulty with adapting to the new estate. The reason for this is similar surroundings; not furniture in the house or landscape behind the widow but the noises. Since my childhood, my parents used to watch TV and discussed the shows passionately, without any consideration about their word choices or volumes of the speech. I did not have my own room where these sounds would be inaccessible so that silence rarely prevailed. I have accustomed to the constant background bustles, rushes, screams, and voices of the TV stars or politicians. I wanted to escape from this disturbance; nonetheless, the roommates have been the same. The content of the background talks and noises changed, but the absence of silence remained as always. It can be that I choose unconsciously loud persons that love to fill their room with music or video lectures. These conditions seem not comfortable, but I got used to them. Possibly, I do not want to feel alone sometimes, and these noises inform me of other people’s presence.
However, the composition of what I feel to be my home is not complete without my personal belongings. Certain books and notes present anchors of convenience to me, being emotionally connected with various memories. For example, my old sketchbook with portraits of people I used to know somehow always occurs in the visible area of my residence. I rarely look through the pages and even touch them, but the presence of the sketchbook, a quick look on it, adds to the general comfort. Similarly, my children’s Bible reveals an extended range of remembrances. The book is amply illustrated in a realistic manner that has formed my art taste in my childhood. It is not of great size, and yet I prefer not to drag it in a bag that could harm its cover or thin pages. However, I place it on the desk to rewatch the familiar narrative when I need it. I associate this piece of personal meditation with my home only. Wherever the place and people surround me, these items bring a pleasant feeling of being in a comfortable place.
Although I consider people less important than my surroundings, I cannot deny their influence on my condition and feelings. My parents made the place where I lived a frustrating one, from which I wanted to escape. Our family apartment seems murky, dusty, dark yellow, and full of old broken furniture that no one cares to throw away. Now, living with a roommate that shares my interests and habits made life brighter. I started to associate home with sunlight, marble plates, and exquisite mirrors, despite the fact that we do not have these objects in our apartment. Even more important, the house conditions I inhabit are not highly distinctive from the parental place. The change in my attitude towards home is entirely on the occasion of the person with whom I share my living. Additionally, I have more friends in the new region than before, which adds to my emotions set towards the place. Thus, people are equally important to the characteristics of the house that I want to call my home.
Yet, even in the new house with the roommate, an understanding and exciting person, I need to be alone sometimes. At my parental home, the places of solitude were woods, parks, and roadsides; now, I have a room where no one can disturb me. I feel that this ability to have a personal space is critical for me. Communication can be exhaustive when it goes for too long, even when the talks are cheerful and lively. Being at home with friends and family is delightful when I have not seen them in a long time. Still, I start to feel overwhelmed and redundant when they try to provide me with all their free time during my visits. I prefer to make pauses in interactions with people and read books, draw, or delve into my thoughts. Some friends can understand this and give me space; others consider it offensive since they value the time and plans they had for the meeting. Family members are sincere in their desire to communicate more, but my ever estrangement frustrates them. Only at home can I regulate the periods of dialogue with intervals of contemplating.
Such importance of isolated space has risen due to my introverted personality. I used to spend my time alone in my childhood when my parents had no time for entertaining me. As a result, I started to love solicitude and felt discomfort when someone paid more attention than I experienced before. The room where I can devote myself to any matters of my consideration determines my identity. I am not a talkative person, and I do not feel affection towards where I was born. Instead, I can adapt to the conditions of different apartments and new people rapidly. What I value are the individual experiences that I carry with me for my entire life. The books and notes I transport with me from house to house are part of my personality, of my memories. Thus, home is where I can belong to myself and yet interact with the persons whom I admire.