No Place to Come Home To

I turned over because I heard my partner sobbing and that doesn’t happen often.
Not because he doesn’t feel, but because he always keeps going. Always keeps looking for a solution, a way, a limit we can still stretch.
But yesterday, something broke. Not just in him. In us.

We had been working toward this moment for so long.
Every spare minute went into preparing. Cleaning. Repairing. Managing. All on our terms, because it can’t be any other way. Because germ aversion isn’t a choice; it’s a survival mechanism.
Because we hoped that maybe this time it would actually work.

We finally left. And came back the same evening.
Not just back, but in pieces.


After months of preparing within the impossibilities of the life we currently live, within the margins of the little time we have, our energy and our circumstances. After weeks where every free moment was spent organizing, getting things ready, dealing with a camper that can’t be parked at home, that we’re not even allowed to work on, and a mind that’s often overwhelmed before the day even begins. It was a slow-motion escape, a puzzle where every piece had to be cleaned before it could be placed.

Fannar still had to be washed, something that always breaks my heart because he hates it so much. His whole body trembles, and every fiber in me trembles with him. But it had to be done. We find my mother’s house filthy. Everything smells like an ashtray, so he couldn’t go in unwashed. Just like the fridge still had to be packed, and the house left behind in order.

Something lifted off our shoulders as we finally drove off. Something heavy. Something that had been there for years. Mart had tested the camper, even on the highway. While we drove, I asked, almost obsessively, if everything felt okay. Again and again. Because I could hardly believe it. And he said yes. Until later, almost whispering, he admitted the camper was showing the same symptoms again. Not so much a statement, more a quiet confession.

We exited the highway and parked at a carpool lot that felt more like a dumping ground than a place of departure. Cigarette butts, broken glass, fast food wrappers everywhere. The heat was unbearable, especially for Fannar, who had to stay inside the camper. Mart dove under the hood, tinkering, listening, trying. And me? I fought with the environment; the radiating asphalt, the flies, the wasp that kept circling the one small window near our bed, which our sacred space where absolutely nothing dirty may enter. Especially not a creature that’s likely been crawling over other people’s waste.

I spent almost half an hour trying to get the wasp out, balancing on a tiny edge not even a centimeter wide, using a spoon to guide it through the roof window, at a spot we can barely reach unless we undress, because we never wear clothes on our bed. That space must remain completely clean. My feet ached from the strain, my nerves were on edge.

We thought maybe it was the diesel. Before we left, I had already asked whether it was smart to top up; I was worried the ratio between diesel and the special cleaner we added in May wasn’t quite right. That mix was supposed to solve the earlier engine issues. Mart didn’t think it was necessary yet..

The nearest gas station was three kilometers away. I decided to go, so Mart could continue working on the engine. I started walking, but the heat and distance were too much. I turned around, got my skates: at least that gave me speed, air on my face. But even that didn’t free me from the sensory onslaught of being outside in the middle of the day.

The smell at the gas station was intense: coffee, processed food, even through two masks. I hadn’t been inside a building in years – not since before COVID, I think. On the way back, I fell flat on the dusty roadside, full of hardened manure left by passing livestock trucks. All I remember is how fast I got back up. No time for pain or shame. I had to get off that ground. I haven’t touched the ground in years, not where people spit, sweat, leak. Not with my whole body. My knees were torn, my pants ripped, blood on my hand despite three pairs of gloves. But I continued. I had to.

When I got back, Mart had tried everything. Nothing worked. The sun burned. The air vibrated. We took a short walk with Fannar along the highway, but it was unbearable, so we returned to the camper.

Mart began making phone calls which something he avoids at all costs. But he had no choice. Garages. Towing services. Eventually our travel insurance could help. They promised to do everything they could to get us back on the road. But the man who showed up was clueless. He didn’t even look at the engine. Just grabbed the camper like it was junk. He touched the outside and even parts inside, without asking.

Mart, in his protective suit and two masks, had to ride with him. I stayed behind with Fannar, under a tree next to an orchard at the edge of the carpool. A kind woman offered me a chair. I wanted so badly to accept, for her. But I couldn’t. Not without cleaning it first. Not there. Not like that.

I wanted to run toward Mart; anything that resembled progress. But Fannar was already overheating just standing still in the sun. So I stayed.

The camper couldn’t go back to its normal storage spot. It’s now parked behind a Gamma hardware store, with a handwritten note in the window: “Broken down.” Mart returned with our car, but no food, and we were starving. Still, we drove briefly to the river Lek for Fannar. He had waited all day, in the heat, for an adventure that never came. We could only stay a few minutes; my mother wanted to leave on time. Her boyfriend wouldn’t tolerate any delay.
I always ask her to keep our parking spot clear and to air out her house before we arrive, so we can get in quickly for Fannar. This time, I took over that task and Mart went back alone to retrieve our essentials. There, he was approached by a man in a luxury car from Abu Dhabi who needed money because his card wasn’t working. Another stranger. Another boundary crossed. Another layer of stress.

Back home, Mart developed an irregular heartbeat. Maybe something he ate. Maybe histamine. But most likely: stress. His body was still on high alert.

We left. And we returned. And returning like this is harder to process than if we had never gone at all. Because every time we rise again, plan again, clean again, try again… Every time we think maybe now it will work, something breaks. Something sweeps away the fragile stability we worked so hard to build; whether it’s heat, overstimulation or my PMDD or the fact that my brother lost his best friend two weeks ago.

And still, we keep trying. Not because we’re strong, but because we simply can’t not try. Because standing still hurts too.

But right now, it’s still. No perspective and no solution. Just the hum of traffic in the distance, a wailing child next door, scaffolding and paint fumes from the flats above, air fresheners drifting in through our window, the neighbor next door working with loud machinery
and us: back in a place that was never meant to be ours.

We did everything right. Prepared. Measured. Hoped. We pulled ourselves up, like we always do with little, with care, with effort.
And still, somewhere along the way, we lost what we set out to find: peace, direction, space.

Not because we failed. But because this world, this system and this pace were never built for people like us.

Maybe it won’t happen for months. Maybe we’ll break a hundred more times. But we won’t give up. Because even now back in the chaos, the fire inside us is still burning.