“You know that point in your life when you realize that the house that you grew up in isn’t really your home anymore? All of the sudden, even though you have some place where you can put your stuff, that idea of home is gone.” – Garden State
I remember the exact moment that it happened to me. I stood in my bedroom for the last time, staring at the empty room. The only things that remained were the cupboards, painted green, and the pink striped wallpaper that lined the room. I’d wanted it to look like a princesses room, once upon a time. I’d had a giant bed, a duvet covered in roses. My pillows were large and suffocating, but comfortable. Now my bed was gone, the many times I’d spent playing and reading on top of it just memories. The vanity that I’d kept all my childhood jewelry and make up left an empty crevice in the side of the room, the cupboard under the stairs no longer full of stuffed animals. I’d hidden under those once, disappeared so far that my parents had thought I’d run away, when truly I’d just fallen asleep buried under bears and used a stuffed duck as a pillow. I realized then that I would never be able to hide that well ever again.
I cried for hours. I stood in my bedroom and cried, trying so hard to feel the edges of the bed that had once been there. They told me I could stand there for as long as I wanted, but if it had been up to me, I never would have left. I would have grown roots, forced my way through the floorboards, turned myself into the foundation. I never would have moved from that place. I never much wanted to say goodbye.