Searching For Home

When you grow up in childhood trauma, nowhere feels like home. I spent most of my childhood dissociating from the reality of my homelife so I could function at school and in my community. This left me with an image of my life that was skewed. I knew deep down that my family didn’t feel right, but I couldn’t understand why I felt that way.

As I grew older and moved back to my family home at 17, I entered the home environment as a different person. Someone who was a little more broken after moving out of home at 15 years old and seeing the world in ways a 15-year-old should never have to. I came back as the parent, the responsible one who filled gaps my parents couldn’t. Parentified. 

I worked hard in therapy to grow up and take responsibility for my life. My family home became my safe, predictable place. The place I would go and hide from the big, bad world. Even though it was just as bad, my dissociation kept me from knowing. 

When I was 32, I remembered it all; everything my parts had hidden from me, and the home I thought was safe and predictable was lost. My foundation was destroyed. The story I built to replace the truth was shattered. The grief was heavy and hard to carry. 

I moved on and tried to create a new safe home with the people I chose as family. 

Almost two years ago, my partner and I moved to a quiet country town. You can hear a pin drop outside our house. The silence and space gave us the ability to breathe again. Until we received a letter to vacate our property in October, when that heavy loss rose to my chest once again. 

The trauma of not having a safe, secure home overtook my body. I stopped being able to eat, my body started to ache, and I ended up in the hospital two days before we moved. All signals that something in my body needs attending to. 

The ways my body dissociates have changed since I was a child. Pain, sickness and anxiety consume my body to keep me from the buried emotions. It’s not a conscious thing I do, but an automatic defence my parts do to protect me. And it takes me a while to catch on to it. 

Home is something many of us take for granted. A place that is safe from violence or harm. Somewhere, we can let our guard down and know we won’t face consequences for it. I don’t think I’ve ever been able to do that if I’m honest. 

As a childhood trauma survivor, I’m constantly searching for home. The soft place I can fall when the world gets too heavy. The loving arms I can collapse into when I’m exhausted and in need of protection. The warmth of love in my tummy, instead of fear. A place where I know for certain that I won’t be hurt again. 

I’ve learnt that place might only exist within. A safe, loving and non-judgmental home with a secure parent-like figure offering me all that I need. No shame or blame, just gentleness. A home that will always be waiting for me.