I'm agoraphobic about my living space. I share this comfy little townhome with a perfect housemate, who's friendly and cooks great food, but I prefer to stay in my own tiny space. It might be because I had so many bad or even dangerous housemates in the past. But even for the brief stretches I had this place to myself, I never used the space. Only my room. The rest never felt like "home".
And now I'm being asked to move again, and I wonder if even this room ever felt like home. I tried, filling it with so many *things* to make it mine. And I guess it became comfortable, but I still feel almost indifferent at the thought of leaving it. Very annoyed, but not sentimental.
35 and I don't have a home, just the place I live any particular year.
When I first got this queen-sized mattress I often rolled out my futon on the floor, or slept in my departed gpa's armchair. The bed was too big, far too big. It's only okay now because I covered half of it in boxes and clean laundry. I have to sleep pressed against the edge, like when I was on top bunk. It doesn't feel... safe, to roll around such a big space. I hope to someday sleep in one of those Japanese cubicle hotels.
I don't think I'm going to move back in, even for my dad's sake, but I sure did fail to figure out this "home" thing. That's only mildly upsetting, though - it's probably not such a big deal.