R-13

Hello, fellows. It's been a while! I apologise for the unannounced absence; we were fleeing a nest in which we could survive for one in which we could thrive. Our own nest now, warm and comfortable, one in which we are not cramped nor coerced. This is our first earnest foray into self-freedom. It did not come without sacrifice, without a final wound, landed as I dove from fetters and frustrations alike.

Even now, I struggle to write this, to let the thoughts free. There is none to enter my room, none to peek over my shoulder and see what I type, and yet, and yet, and yet. The seeds of internal surveillance planted, sown. I hack at them, albeit quietly, surreptitiously, lest the eyes I fear roaming about my mind be true.

Ah, this is Pride; let me be proud. Stomp about the place. Max was always my favourite childhood story.

I have, for the first time in decades, found myself calling where I live, Home. I haven't felt at ease in the place I've dwelt for decades. I have three and a tenth lived, and, of those, only a sixth of a decade has been lived somewhere I feel safe and calm and nurturing and warm. Six years in sum, in safety at home. I haven't called the place I returned to Home for years. Six years spent homeless, this last time. and before then a restlessness where I lived, the feeling of a snare snapped shut upon me, of inescapable living situations.

I have struggled to write of what constitutes Home for as long as I've written. It is a subject I've little experience with.

The first thing I had to adjust to was the notion that not everything need stay within the confines of my room. That I had the entirety of Home in which to place things. The second thing I had to adjust to was the comfort; nothing was too loud, too cold, too messy. I felt unnerved by the fact I wasn't being inundated by sensory discomforts. I believe that people who chronically suffer overstimulation find themselves overstimulated by the quiet found in peace. It is a welcome strangeness, to me. A sad one, surely,

For the first time in my life, I have been able to have visitors and host them myself. There were friends who visited throughout my childhood – perhaps two, and not often. I have had twice that, and a guest who remained with me for a week (my lovely Moonflower!) and will have as many as I wish, forevermore.

My nest, mine, all mine.

I have been doing my dishes in a third of the time these days; I have been doing laundry whenever I please; I have kept my floors so clean that I feel safe going barefoot. I have danced. I have sang. I have felt more rested upon awakening.The plants are thriving, too; they reach and rise.

I call my beloveds from my living room now, instead of my closet. I have a living room now. Me. A den, in earnest. After I obtain the rest of my furnishings, I shall delve into decoration. My first time decorating beyond putting art on otherwise empty walls. I got an oil change and felt nothing about running the errand. I felt as free leaving my home as I felt returning there.

I don't live behind someone else's hearth. I live with mine. Home. Home! I've a home! Me!