When Home Is Hostile
On childhood homes, ghosts and the people who live on in us. Plus, a touching film, nostalgic soundtrack and Toronto's best biscuits.
When I want to feel close to my mom, I lie on the floor in the very spot where I found her unconscious. And I sleep in her bed, on the side I would occupy only when I was sick and craving motherly comfort. When I roll over in the morning, I expect her to be lying next to me, in the same way I expect to see her in the kitchen every time I enter our apartment, the place I’ve called home since the age of 11.
Like the famous David Foster Wallace fish parable about not being able to see the water when you’re swimming in it, sometimes we can’t truly see how an environment is affecting us until we have some distance from it. I find the enlightenment comes not while away, but upon return.
Since moving to New York, I haven’t thought much about the home I left or how my mental health might have changed with my new environment. But upon returning last month for the holidays, I realized something has shifted.