Mixed Girl Thoughts

Trigger Warning: Talks of d*pression, s*icide, loneliness, etc.

Let’s play a game.

Put a finger down if you have moved once in your life…

Put a finger down if you have moved 4 times…

5 times…?

10 times…?

How about 20?

If you still have fingers up, you won. If you don’t, welcome to the club.

My Dad was in the US Navy for over 20 years. He retired when I was 16, and the first 16 years of my life were filled with lots of moving, new starts, tearful goodbyes, and many McGriddle breakfasts on the road to the new duty station.

What started to feel like home was really the people I was with, and not really the location. Fairly recently, I had this conversation with my sisters and my Mom. If we had to say where we’re “from”, we could say where we were born. But I’m not from Portsmouth, Virginia. I don’t know anything about the area other than there is a Navy Hospital there! I don’t feel comfortable saying I’m from anywhere, because, to me, to say you are from somewhere means you know the street names. You have a usual at a local café. You know so-and-so on [insert street name here] and their family over on [different street name].

I feel very nomadic in the sense that I don’t necessarily consider myself to have a “hometown”. In that, though, I often feel very isolated and alone. There’s a bunch of different places that I remember bits and pieces of, and considered home, at different phases as a child. But now, as an adult, home isn’t really anywhere.

I know that sounds kind of depressing. “Home isn’t really anywhere”, but it’s true. I think of home, and have for the past (almost) six years, as when I am with my husband or with my family.

My husband and I have started to consider where and when we’ll “settle down”, as the grown ups say. But settling down means putting down roots, and putting down roots means not moving every three-to-five years.

I’m just not sure I could do that.

Accepting life as a Navy brat means accepting that you should not get attached to things. Don’t get attached to your new school, to your new friends, to your new house, etc. Because as soon as it all starts to feel normal, you will have to move.

It also meant that you could try different “versions” of yourself out, if you wanted to. My sister and I joked about how we used to tell people different things about ourselves everytime we moved, just to keep it interesting. I told people in 3rd grade I was from NYC, just because I didn’t want to talk about my life again, with brand new people. She said she told people who kept speaking Spanish to her in Texas that she is Hispanic, she just couldn’t speak it. Sometimes it is easier to just lie than tell people “Well, my father was in the Navy.”

I mean, I have a running script in my head every time people ask me “So where are you from?” that’s been perfected over the past 20 years of my life.

Nowhere really “feels” like home. But, then again, how will I know what home feels like if I don’t even know what it felt like? I have moved over 25 times in my life at this point; 20 because of the Navy, 5 because of myself, and it has caused me to be a bit detatched from things. Which my therapist says isn’t good.

So, while I settle into my life in England, I am trying really hard to become content with the idea of it being my new “home”. Because, realistically, moving is fucking expensive and I actually really like where we are in England. 30 min train ride from London, a couple hours to Brighton. It’s pretty fun exploring. I like the weather here, and the area reminds me a lot of Virginia.

Growing up, the place we were stationed the most was Virginia. If I had to consider anywhere “home”, it would be VA. We lived there the longest and my Dad was stationed there 3 times. I was born there, as well, so like, it is figuratively “home”. Part of me wants to go back there, but I also know that it is not the same as when I left it 10 years ago. My sister and I briefly drove through it in 2023, but I couldn’t recognize anything. I barely understood where I was. If my husband ever wanted to move to America, that is where we would probably go.

England is slowly starting to feel like home. I own my own car. I started a new job. We have a two bedroom flat and, to be honest, it is the most space I have ever had to myself. We own our own furniture. We are all grown up here, enjoying our DINK lifestyle (dual income, no kids for those not chronically online). I have picked out my favorite supermarket, department store(s), restuarants, etc. The cats have their vet they see now, etc. Life is good. I am content. Emotionally, I may be struggling, and maybe a little bit financially, but hey, I have a balcony in my apartment. Once I get a chair out there, I will be like a little old lady in the mornings. Shit, maybe I will even learn to knit.

My cats are my children, and they keep us busy as hell. They’re sweethearts, though. No babies yet. Not for at least 10 years. (Sorry parents.) I can barely dress myself correctly at times, there is no WAY in hell I am having a whole mini person. I haven’t even gone on a real vacation yet. No. way.

But, as I sit here and write, I cannot help but feel empty. I miss my family. I miss “home” the way I think of it in my head. Coming home from school and my Mom is cooking dinner. Doing homework at the table until Dad comes home. When family life is good, or we had a really good day… yeah. I miss that.

It is hard to know how to create that feeling as an adult. That feeling that everything is going to be alright. That you’re taken care of. That your only worry is finishing that English paper on time. Don’t get me wrong, there were bad days too. Days I cried myself to sleep. Days I just didn’t eat. Days I called the s*icide hotline because I didn’t want to be here anymore.

As an adult, I think about how I felt so voiceless, at times, as a kid. How I felt so alone. How I felt so depressed… crying myself to sleep. To think about those days is hard, because it is admitting that they happened. I think that is why I am hesitant to call anywhere home. Because home is where you’re supposed to feel safe… and I just didn’t feel mentally safe.

Everytime we moved because we had to, and my Dad was stationed somewhere else, especially as I got older, it became less and less exciting. (Except when he got orders for Japan… I really wish we could have gone to Japan.)

I started to feel more and more alone. I mean, I had to do Senior Year at an entirely new school. Junior Year at an entirely new school (and different than the one I went to for Senior Year). If you know anything about American High School… those are some pretty tough years to be the new kid. I was awkward, a nerd, and, now I know, autistic as fuck. I was pretty uncomfortable in my skin and became a chameleon. I learned to be whatever I had to be so I could fit in. I desperately wanted to fit in. Which is bizarre to think about now, as I really didn’t give a shit about any of that in Middle School or Freshman and Sophomore year of High School. I was fine being nerdy and keeping to myself. I still am, now. But Junior and Senior year there is a lot of “friend-focused” activities. Class Rings, Senior Sunrise, Senior Sunset, Prom, Homecoming(s)/Football games in general. I went to the football games with my parents… I didn’t have friends to go with.

That kind of isolation has somewhat bled into being an adult. I am used to moving, I am used to having only myself as company, so that’s where I typically like to stay. It also doesn’t help that some British humor feels like insults, genuinely, and I cannot define when people are actually being assholes and when they’re just joking. What’s even more confusing is that they’ll say their snarky comment about someone else, and then turn to you and say it again because they think it is true. But, if someone calls them out on it, they say they were joking.

I mean, wouldn’t you then not trust them, too? I think those are just the “asshole” Brits and then there are nice ones. I have found a couple nice ones recently. Still testing the waters to see if they are truly the nice ones. The nicest people to me have been the Europeans and Africans. I like them. They’re funny, too.

Home to me is safety, mentally, physically, and spiritually. I am currently trying to craft that in my own home. I don’t let people into my home if I don’t like them/they’re not nice, and I keep my space pretty sacred. No bad vibes. I’ve been pretty successful so far.

I don’t know where “home” is, but I am determined to make wherever I am feel like “home” for my partner, my cats, and I.

At least for the next 3-5 years… ;)

J x