The older that I get the more I begin to realise those fundamental truths about myself. I find that I have developed a disconnection from home, which has seemed to increase steadily over the last couple of years. I never want to be home. I don’t like going home and I do not like staying there.

But where is home? Most people would figure home into a house that you grew up in a child, or your current place of residence. Going home is supposed to be something significant. Those who live hours from their homes travel back home for the holidays, it becomes something of excitement and represents the holidays. I don’t have that, since my current house is only a 5 minute drive from my parent’s house.

When I lived at my parent’s house, I hated being there. I would do anything to avoid heading home and sitting on the couch with nothing to do. I found it difficult to study at home, and it wasn’t somewhere I ever wanted to be stuck. I never had anything bad happen at home, that would push me to escape. It was a perfect little world, with animals and friends. In search of new experiences, I headed halfway across the other side of the world to go to College. I loved living on Campus, I loved being around my friends all time. And I found myself spending time alone in my dorm. I don’t know how I had as much time as I did to write, as from memory I remember being out all the time.

Upon my return to the Golden Shores of Australia, I moved out of my parent’s house and in with my boyfriend. For the next three and a bit years, I lived amongst his family and felt more connected. I didn’t visit my parent’s much, or as much as I should have. But I believe I was on my own journey to establish myself in my own life. I wanted to push the boundaries of what I knew to be real and true. I wanted to challenge myself.

Still as a child, I lived with my boyfriend and completed my Graduate Diploma of Education. I struggled with the space but felt I could stay. When things went sour, I found myself dislocated again. I wasn’t ready to admit the failures of our relationship and answer the questions from my parents. I searched for an escape and wound up collecting my thoughts with my girlfriend and her partner. A much needed break. But I was still only an alien.

Facing up to reality, I arrived at my parent’s doorstep at 23 years of age. It had been a long journey but I was back where I started, only I had a lot more money. Working full time allowed me the freedom to live and enjoy the experience of living in the family hotel. I found it hard to express myself and being single and living at home didn’t suit my description. I tried to be out as much as possible.

At last I managed to escape to a residence some 5 minutes from my parent’s house. And hence began my journey to settlement. And I tried but ended up half moving out again. I found being at home lonely and boring and the excitement of cooking for myself quickly wore off. Again I ended up co- habituating with another male, having more than half of my wardrobe there. I never came home. I paid rent. I paid bills. But I never lived at home. I would choose to be home alone at his house versus home alone at home.

So here I find myself again, back at home. This time with my boyfriend and a spontaneous furry addition called Isis. But still I am not convinced I want to be there. I still feel like a guest, an alien in my house, surrounded by my own things. I still don’t want to be there alone.

If home isn’t where the heart is, where is it? This is what confuses me the most. As soon as I step foot out of Melbourne, the only place I want to be is home. So there is there hatred of being home, but anxiety of being away. I cant work myself out.

I have toyed with the idea of moving interstate, but I think I will find myself confronting the same demons. For me it has never been the location, it’s just the feeling. How do I change it? The kitten helps a little. She gives me something to want to go home to. But she still doesn’t keep me there. I also don’t know if being home is just a phase for me? I’ve always liked other’s homes better.

I blame this nomadic personality on my parents and the travelling we did as kids. I have travelled for the most part, nearly of the populated areas.. and many that are not populated with people. At every chance we could get, we would escape into the night and end up in Central Australia. They are still ‘poly-homic’ – meaning half the week they live in Melbourne and the other half of the week they are in the country.

I wonder if my disconnection to home has something to do with the fact that I have never wanted to be truly settled? I have never wanted to buy a bed as I have never known where I will be.

The worst part is that you are not young forever. There comes a time to settle and grow up. I still want to escape overseas for months and return with a bronzed tan and a few battle scars. But there is also a side to me that realises that I am too old for the backpacking and living on nothing travelling. I like the fine things.

Maybe it is that I have never found myself permanently settled anywhere, knowing that there is always a time I will move. That every house I live in has an eventual expiry. I feel like a squatter in my own home. Is the answer to purchase my own home? Some how I believe the trap of a solid mortgage will only aide to my suffocation.

When will it all change? Once I reach the 27 Club?