On shelter, abandonment, and making a home.


This morning is my 31st birthday.
I moved out of the house two weeks before my 16th birthday.

My mom, in one of her bi-polar outbursts stemming from her intense emotional abandonment scars, kicked me out of the house. She probably didn’t mean it, but I was old enough to want to take it seriously and not live in that toxic environment anymore. I ran out of the house crying, got on the back of my boyfriend’s motorcycle and we went to my Aunt Lisa’s house up the street. We curled up on her floor for a few nights until my dad got back to town (he’s a long haul truck driver). Then my dad and I went out together and he got me an apartment and my first car (A white ford probe hatchback, super bitchin) and I made the first shelter for myself that was all my own.

Aside from the whole my mom kicked me out thing, it was really fucking cool. The apartment was behind a giant shopping mall, which was total heaven. I quickly got my GED and got a hilarious job calling parents who had filled out slips from a pad of paper next to the Toys-R-Us check out signing their children up for modeling auditions.

I broke up with the motorcycle boyfriend later that same year and when I was 17 I moved again – to another apartment in a neighboring city. I was always really good at making a home. I loved books and photos and warm textures and everything out where I could see it.

Even now almost every single new person that walks into my house immediately comments on the warm, cozy, inviting energy.

I moved again when I was 18, again when I was 19, and then when I was 20 I moved to New York City to live with my boyfriend, Matt and my ex-boyfriend, Bryan. This was amazing for a minute – we had a beautiful two bedroom third floor walk up in Queens, I worked at an Alice in Wonderland themed tea shop on the upper east side, gallivanted around Manhattan after work every day, and I was rolling in cash because I was successfully selling my dirty underwear on Craig’s List to fancy pants business men. But then it blew up in smoke when Matt caught me blowing Bryan on a park bench.

That sent me back to Phoenix where I met and married a man within a year of returning and we bought a condo that I lived in for the next 4 years – the longest stint of my life at that point.

After our divorce I moved into a community house which was the absolute perfect incubator for the New and Improved Me. I capped that off with a summer alone travelling Europe and I had truly reinvented myself.

Post-Europe I fell in love with my best friend of many years and we’re still together now, five years later. We’ve made a beautiful home together in downtown Phoenix – renting a house for dirt cheap in a fun downtown arts district, which is officially the house I’ve lived in the longest – beating out the condo by a few weeks at this moment. It’s been the perfect incubator for us because our overhead is low, which means our stress is low and we have the time and energy to focus on our writing and all of our passive income streams we are building and we don’t have to work for anyone else just because we need the money.

Lately though. I feel like I’ve outgrown this container. I’ve been nesting and planting seeds and laying the ground work and now I feel like the shit is fucking LAID. And I’m ready to burst out of this container in a super bad ass way and sky rocket about 2,657 levels in life. I don’t have any direction per se so it’s exciting and interesting – just this underlying feeling that something is coming, something is about to change.

And I’m ready.


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