Not liking going home as a child or Home is where fun...

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The full title should be: "'Not liking going home as a child' or 'Home is where fun comes to die'"

Anyone else simply dislike going home as a child? I remember that when I was growing up, I hated it. My parents were very strict, and were very strongly focused on order and discipline in the home. They perceived any break in the order and discipline as a personal attack, and reacted very angrily. So I quickly started to think of home as a place where fun comes to die. I also think of my future marital home with my wife the same way, only I can keep it from existing by staying single. Because I "know" that living with my wife will mean the same thing.

It didn't matter where I was going home from: my grandparents' house, my friend's birthday party, a playground in a city park, an interesting store, a movie theater, a dinner at my parents' friends, etc. No matter where I was, every time my parents told me it was time to go home, I would have a meltdown. (And got in trouble for it, of course.) I harbored fantasies about living in the streets, so that my fun would never end. I would visit people and places, including my parents' home, then go "home" to the streets where I could do whatever I want. (I planned on sleeping in the park during the summer, and in my town's Amtrak station during the winter.)

Why? Because going home with my parents meant one thing: all fun must cease and desist. More often than not, it was followed by something unpleasant: rules and discipline, a bedtime (which I hated with a passion), or a punishment for some perceived infraction at the "fun" place. My resistance to going home was worst in the evenings, because it meant going to bed afterwards. And bedtime meant two hours of falling asleep, followed by nightmares in my sleep. To add insult to the injury, I was shamed for not falling asleep quickly enough.

The only places where I was fine with going home from, was my school, the swimming pool where I took lessons, and a boring venues like a shoe store. Basically, the places that were "less fun" than home. And even then, I tried stalling tactics, with varying degrees of success. Like, "Do we need to stop at [grocery store] to pick up things?" Or, "Can we walk through [city park with animal sculptures] instead of going on [regular street]?" Basically, anything to delay the dreaded "going home".

I kept resisting like that until I was 11 or so. After that, I got in trouble enough times, that I simply stopped verbalizing it, and simply stewed on the inside. The resistance returned during my college years (I lived at home), when I started staying out as late as possible, or simply drove around aimlessly. Of course, it's not an issue today, when coming home from a fun night out means beer, junk food, and porn. Followed by falling asleep in 15 minutes.

Anyone else felt the same way as a child? That is, not wanting to go home from an enjoyable place.

No, it has always been the complete opposite for me. I always had all the time in the world going to school, because I was just going to school after all, and I hurried home to where the fun was to be had. Every school day I looked forward to returning home to my life, and every vacation was heaven sent and the end of vacation was always enough to put me in a foul mood.

Even when I was out for something fun, I hardly ever minded going home. Of course there were the occasional time when I wanted to play more or whatever, but it was never a very big deal, just a temporary small disappointment because I had to end the fun I was doing right there and then, but soon forgotten for other fun.

I would dread living with anyone else though. It would be very hard to adjust to someone and there are so many things I don't wanna change/ give up, and many quirks I don't mind but others might.

Most of the time, I did as I pleased. I just had to meet certain standards at mealtime and with guests, but my parents were not interested in children. I was astounded to learn that other parents discussed school work, and that their kids would ask them for help.
I was given more than my father had at the same age, and if I asked for anything, I was told why I didn't deserve it.

No, home was always a safe place for me. I did feel sometimes that nobody could possibly like me because I was too different, but that wasn't really the case.

Only time I remember feeling that way was returning home from holidays. I recall Dad saying how good it was to get home, and I disagreed strongly. I was generally treated better on holiday. My mother could be very overbearing and hostile, and the presence of others seemed to make her behave better. And of course there were beaches, buckets and spades, I used to love that stuff. And I was usually given more money. The strain of travelling the length of England on a shoestring budget caused them to have a blazing row every time we got home, which was pretty distressing. But home didn't seem a particularly bad place apart from my mother's behaviour. I had a fairly restrictive upbringing but there was some freedom, and I liked playing with my toys.

It changed one year when my parents went home after our usual 2-week holiday and I was allowed to stay on with relatives for a couple more weeks. I jumped at the chance, but I soon got sick of the whole deal. My aunt had some kind of depression going on and kept crying loudly. I started taking a dislike to my cousin's friends for stupid reasons, and that didn't do my popularity any good. The novelty of the place had worn off, the trips to the beach had stopped. It felt great to get home. I remember being glad to see the cream-and-blue Sheffield buses again.

For a long time now I've felt safer and happier at home, as long as I don't stay there for days on end. I've got most of what I need to pursue my special interests, I can set the air temperature to suit me best, and there's nobody here to push me around or intimidate me. It's my own place, so if there's anything about it I don't like, I can probably change it. I always used to go home for lunch when I was working, to decompress. Come to think of it, when I first went to the secondary school, I was quite crestfallen to discover that I'd have to stay all day.

So all in all, I've never seen home as a place where fun dies. For me home is a place of comfort and security, with some fun and some boredom, sorrow and loneliness.

I was sad to read your post. Home should be a safe haven and I am sorry you didn't have that as a kid but glad you have it now.

Your post did make me feel like like I am doing the right thing co-sleeping with my autistic child though who hates the dark, sleeping alone and is prone to nightmares unless she can sleep next to me when she sleeps like a log. So thank you for that.

It should not be a repeat having a wife. Living with a spouse is nothing at all like living with your parents. Nothing. And if she (your wife) imposed arbitrary rules on you or your shared household surely you would just walk away and get a divorce. Besides, if that is a worry, you could always not co- habit with your wife but have separate residences. I seriously don't think it would be anything like living with your parents.

Home was a cage where abuse and neglect were normal, standard issue parenting techniques and also the status quo for their marriage.

I f*****g hated it there.

I left the first chance I got. I only went back when I had nowhere else to go, for a few months until I could get back out.
You couldn't pay me to be a kid again.

I feel pretty much the same way as Coyote.

There was, perhaps, less abuse perpetuated on me. But there was some.

When I left the "nest," I swore I would never come back----even if I was rendered homeless.

And I really don't like being homeless.

My main concern at home was to not get disowned before I could take care of myself. Dad got me a summer job and effectively kicked me out when I was 17. Mom was on her deathbed before she asked why I'd stayed away. Homelessness never tempted me to try "home" again.

I understand, in a way. For me, everywhere away from home is a 'safe place' where I can be myself. I was never bullied at school, and grew to 'adopt' my teachers as a kind of pseudo-parents who would accept me for who I am and encourage me when my parents would critisise me.

My parents would always try to 'fix' my ASD by forcing me to conform absolutely to social norms at all times (I'm talking berating me for saying/doing something slightly abnormal at home, however harmless). There have been times when I have cried (as an older teenager) because I had to go home, especially if I had been at a friend's house where the parents were supportive, loving, and starkly in contrast to my parents.

I left home on my 15th birthday. The streets were less scary.