Home - The Stress of Moving Home

Moving home is regarded as amongst the most stressful things a human can go through. While there may be a little exaggeration in this; ones final night on death row prior to execution, seeing ones child in the dock for a crime they didn't commit, awaiting government troops with your Syrian rebel comrades, all bullets spent in the ruins of your city, you get the idea, there are countless more stressful things,
However, the fact remains, and I am still not right from my move. Yes, the place is warm and safe but I can not unwind.
Our psychogeography spins in concentric circles out from the nest and security and sanity depends on return each night to the nest. A foundation more profound than family, than spouse or friends . The central point from where consciousness opens each morning and closes down each night.
During these days of insecurity in my deep subconscious as to where home is, I find hunger comes when food is unrequired. Knowing where the next meal is coming from provides a relaxation from the security of food safe and in the bank.
The homeless guy I see each morning pitches his bundle in the same doorway each night. His refusal of the temporary and occasional nights roof overheads that were all I could offer came from his sense of home. There may be cold in his spot but the noises of the night become familiar. His subconscious learned who came by and when. The dogs, cats and fox sounds. The animals who share his area are known to him, even if he could not tell you this.
And so it is for me in my new home. The gurgling of different pipes. The new fridges trundle. The neighbours snoring or overhead padding feet, and noises beneath conscious register, smells, air textures and differing temperatures, all are strange and disturb me even behind the wall of sleep. The countless subtle details we gather our reference from. The thousand points in space we lash our craft to.
So I try to remember why I am moving. Though my relationship lies torn and broken it can be repaired. My dog, who can not choose his home, can no longer climb the three flights of stairs. He needs to live on the ground. I could have returned to living in a van, as we used to in the summer. But both our bones are older now and home comforts more alluring. He is fourteen and old for his breed. He needs a safe and easy home for his last days. And there are new walks for us. Woodland not immediate but on three sides. We will settle in.
The largest factor in what one finds in life comes from expectation. The sense of entitlement is the part that is hidden by class. There is no way to explain this, either you see it or you never will. And in these nice dwellings there is a large part of me that will always feel like an intruder. Like a burglar. Like I don't belong there. Like I don't deserve it. I find myself waiting for it all to come crashing down. Eviction and a return to the gutter. This would fulfill my faith in prejudice. It would satisfy my persecution complex.
This doesn't feel like home. I can't say I have felt I truly had a home for over a decade. Maybe I never will again. You can give up your bad ways. You can be upwardly socially mobile. But it leaves you alone. Your people can not come with you.