April 15, 2023

Home.

Define home.

A place where I feel safe and sound. Where I can let down my guard and just be me. My mask slips away as I cross my threshold and so do my clothes. I sit on the couch wearing my Batman onesie and snuggle up to a good show or a book depending on how I’m feeling. The dinner I ate is starting to settle and go my eyes slowly start to close. I drift off into a sound sleep right on the couch with no worries on my mind. Survival mode has been disengaged and I can finally sleep feeling safe and sound.

…I haven’t felt that in a really long time.

I can’t remember a time I felt that.

I can only remember the day the bubble of home was taken from us. Taken from me.

It all happened when I was in 10th grade.

An unauthorized raid popped the fragile bubble.

The pressure to move to another house was intense.

Desperately needing to feel the feeling of safety again.

A few months after the event we moved… but I never got the feeling of home back.

There were times when I would blindly look for it.

In friends, in lovers, in certain locations… like the library.

When I went off to college the feeling of home was on the tip of my tongue.

I decorated my room with accents of the color teal, I had my mini fridge stocked, and my pictures of family and friends on the wall. I thought I had it all figured out. I had created my safe haven.
But even with all the decorating I never felt settled.

When I would go back home for the holidays the feeling would appear and then a second later it would disappear like a ghost in the night.

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Writing this I’m realizing that that event took more than the feeling of home away from me. On some level, it took the sense of self-security away from me.

Yes, I was only in the 10th grade and there was nothing for me to do.

But that’s my point- there was nothing for me to do.

I couldn’t do anything to help. All I could do was watch everything happen from a neighbor’s window.

Watch the adults whisper to one another.

Analyze the body language of my mom, my dad, my grandma, the officers, and the onlookers.

Watching the red and blue lights reflect off of the building in the moonlight.

I just stood by and watched everything happen.

I wanted to cry but I forced myself to keep a straight face.

The people that are supposed to protect me … they disrespected my home. The place I lay my head, the place my family shares laughs and meals together.

The act of violence disrupted the sense of peace within me. To the point where I felt like I could no longer provide myself with security. The feeling of needing to sleep with one eye open.

Just thinking about it makes me want to shed a tear.

So many things in life are encased in a veil.

We watch the news and see the horrific things that are happening to other people. And we pray for it to never touch us or the people we know.

But once the veil is snatched from us… how can we put it back on?
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I’m writing this because I’m moving into my own place.

Everyone keeps saying congratulations.

When I tell my worry they say, “You got this.”

In my head, it’s screaming at me that I don’t got this.

That I’m going to fall face-first into the asphalt.

Creating a home for myself means entering into another stage of adulting.

Being solely dependent on myself.

It’s an exciting but lonely feeling.

Exciting because of the freedom. Being able to have more control of my inner world.

Lonely feeling because moving into your own place is normally a community effort. Your parents help you pack and your friends help you unpack. You invite them to your housewarming. To fill the house with unconditional love and to fill it with happy memories.

Moving to California from Washington DC has been a lonely experience all around.

There’s no one there to cry to. There’s no one there to touch you with a state of familiarity.

There’s no solid ground to be grounded on.

There are moments of the overwhelming feeling of loneliness.

Having my own place will give me the peace that I am looking for.

But it also intensifies everything else.

Why am I writing this?

To feel less alone on this journey.
To talk about something that people don’t talk about.
Every time I bring up this subject to someone they relate to it and I feel less alone.

I’m writing about this because I’m sad and I desperately want a place to call my own.

To no longer feel like a prisoner in the house I share with my roommate.

To no longer feel like my mask has to continue to be worn even when I step through the threshold.

Home whispered in my ear every time I would get the chance to visit California.

Every time I would visit the state- the wind would try to seduce me to stay but I always had to return back to my roots.

Years after I graduated the wind continued to seduce me.

I finally caved in and moved to Los Angeles, California.

Now that I’ve caved into my wants and my desires I now have internal conflict.

To me…

Home is made up of years of memories.

My cousins and I running across the street to our local corner store to get 25-cent chips, a honey bun, and a Huggie all for $1.

Home is walking down H street and hearing go-go music blasting from the speakers of a Metro PCS store.

Home is an old family friend giving me a couple of dollars so I can catch the bus.

Home is a woman who I don’t know from a can of paint talking to me to help get me out of an uncomfortable situation.

Home is filled with people who love to see me succeed but not more than them.

Home is finally getting my license and being able to drive to my grandma’s house without GPS. This is a godsend because fighting to get over onto a line I should’ve gotten into 5 mins ago is a headache.

Home is filled with riding the train station late at night and making the cars my runway.
Home is filled with misplaced violence in my neighborhood.

Home is a place where I know the city has my back.

Home is filled with love from my family and them wanting to see me succeed but also wanting me to stay in their homes to keep me “safe”.

Home is knowing I need to leave to become the person I want to become.

But like I said…

I haven’t had that feeling in a long time.

You may be asking… “Why not make LA your new home?”

I would say back…

“It doesn’t have all the things I listed above.”

And you might say…

“Why would you want your home to possess some of those characteristics?” Or you may say, “Make California your new home. You get to create whatever that means for you.”

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Back home, in the DMV, I’m Sabryn. The girl who’s trying her best to swim through the rough current. She finds her rhythm for a while but then boom. Something happens and she’s fighting for her life again. In the end, she figures out a way to survive until she can find her way out of the water.

That is home. That was home. Or that is/was home…

Thinking about it is making my head spin.

Going back to the DMV my head spins in anxiety. I don’t want to swim again. I don’t want to put on my swimming gear again. I don’t want to go into survival mode anymore.

The anxiety I feel makes me want to run away from it.
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In Los Angeles, I’m discovering myself without all the gear bringing me down. I’m enjoying the freedom. But in enjoying my freedom I’m also fearing my return.

Can I bring freedom to the water?

If I do, I’ll drown.

If I put the gear on I’m back in survival mode.

Is there any way I can do both?

The word ‘boundaries’ popped into my head.

This may allow me to be free in the place I once called home.

To be honest this all sounds impossible.

How I’m feeling right now… I wouldn’t dare step back on that land… even if my heart ached for it.

But even in saying that I know that’s a lie.

Ah… the struggle of creating a new home and having strings attached to my hometown.

One day, hopefully, I’ll no longer feel this way.

Hopefully one day my freedom can just walk across the water with no scratches.

Until that day comes… I guess I’ll go on and put on my swimming gear.

Until next time,
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