Oh give me a home...

Moving is like reinventing yourself, but better, because you have your past to build on.
But going back is like reminding yourself, you've grown up, but part of you still belongs here.

I never thought six weeks could change everything in the way that it did. I never thought living in a small dirty box, constantly surrounded by noise and other people would be anything but misery. I've also never liked admitting I was wrong.
But I was. Wrong.

I've been awake today for a little more than two hours, and my large room, filled with books and treasures and memories of my past, feels barren, blank. It's like I'm looking into someone else's life, someone else's past, someone else's story. I've read the memoir and I remember the events, but I'm no longer sure it's me who's lived them.

It makes me laugh, because if I had said to my friends, seven or eight weeks ago, that living in a small dorm room surrounded by dozens of people constantly going in and out, would be my idea of home, they would have thought I needed to be exercised.
I've grown more in the past six weeks than I have in months. I guess that's what being uncomfortable does: it teaches you things, mostly about yourself.

But now I'm "home" in San Diego, sick, as luck would have it, and missing my Santa Barbara company more than anyone would have expected.

But the icing on the cake is: this IS me.