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House of Me
I dream of houses—
unfamiliar ones
that never feel like home.
Each night, a different place.
Endlessly changing layouts—
rooms that cannot be mapped,
no matter how many times
I pass through them.
In the dream, I am always searching—
trying to remember
whose house this is,
how I came to be here.
Some hallways are haunted.
Ghosts linger near doorways,
not threatening,
just present—
as if they have been waiting.
Other rooms feel scrambled,
like memories stored incorrectly.
Staircases lead somewhere
I don’t recognize.
There is often a sense of turmoil.
Something unfolding just out of reach.
A quiet urgency
I can’t name.
None of the houses are mine.
I never feel quite settled.
So I move carefully,
as if I might be discovered.
If this is me—
then why am I always a visitor?
Why do I walk softly,
as though the walls
are deciding
whether I belong here at all?
An imposter,
wandering the corridors
of my own mind—
searching for something familiar.
#ComplexPosttraumaticStressDisorder #PTSD #Trauma #Anxiety #MentalHealth
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