Home. What really makes a home? Is a home a place? A person? A feeling? I have wondered for such a long time as to what a home truly entails, and I still question if I know the answer.

I grew up in a small town, called Muncy, one that almost every person I meet has never heard of. We are most famous for having the women's state prison and for the one time we were on the news because of a blimp landing in the town. I have mastered the art of explaining how to get to Muncy from the more famous location, Williamsport, because most people know about the Little League World Series. And if those descriptors fail, I usually resort to the simple, "Central PA, one of those small towns in the middle of no where."

The house I grew up in has been filled with all of my childhood memories, having stayed there for almost twenty years. The house used to be the place I would run to when I did not have anywhere else to go. The house was the place for my first steps, first bike ride, first kiss, first sleepover, first sip of alcohol, and so much more. The house brought my family back to the dining table so many times to play cards, eat dinner, or enjoy each other's company. The house is where most of my life has taken place, and I can never forget it.

Although I am thankful for all of the positive memories, I cannot help but feel pain each time I think about the past living in Muncy. I think about the time I got my heart broken, about the time my parents fought before the divorce, and about the time we had to pack up after my mother's passing. I think about what has pulled at my heart strings the most instead of the brighter moments.

I know I sound like a pessimist, only seeing the negativity around the situation. And that perspective is ironic if you know me, because I really do try to see the light in every dark moment. But life has always thrown me many obstacles, and after dealing with so much pain in a specific place, the best option is to move on.

And for the record, no, I still do not want to be there. No, I do not want to see my old house. No, I do not want to be reminded about the times I hurt so much. No, I do not want to visit. No, I do not want to be anywhere close to that place.

Please, keep asking me to visit. I slowly have gained more strength with saying no, after at least a thousand times. But I really want you to understand why you need to stop questioning my refusal to return because it frustrates me more than you know when everyone continually asks.

I mentioned a fraction of the pain I have felt when I think about my home town. However, I still do not think people understand exactly what I feel when I am in that place.

I do not think people understand the immense fear I have of being closer to the man who sexually assaulted me. I do not think people understand the grief I have of remembering time spent with my mother at each stop light in town. I do not think people understand the anxiety that is sparked when I think back to when I began to self-harm and ignited my depression. I do not think people understand the despair I feel knowing that we had to give up the house my mom fought with every fiber of her being for. I do not think people understand the emptiness I have for leaving my old home and trying to find a new place to belong. I do not think people understand the tears in my heart that emerged from losing my faith in my hometown to bring me happiness.

I am sorry, I truly am, that I cannot bring myself to willingly return to Muncy. I have done it before, and each time the bitter and resentful half of me seeps out. I have fought hard not to be that person, so why would I put myself in a situation that releases that negativity?

I have been unfair with myself because I have not fully been honest with how I feel about my home town to those I love. But as much as I loathe the town, I will always be appreciative of the home I used to have. I am grateful for the people who have stuck with me, even from hundreds of miles away. I am grateful for the lessons I have learned because they have helped me become a wiser woman. I am grateful for the pain because it made me stronger.

With that being said, I hope you can understand that even though Muncy is my home town, I cannot consider it my home. At the moment I may not know where, or who, or what my home is, but I have learned to move on from the places that are not. And that is your answer to why I will not stay in my home town, I hope you remember it the next time you ask.