There’s No Place Like 7-Eleven
Amongst my fellow snack seekers, I feel more at home than I ever have
Gas Pumps
My relationship with my family hasn’t been comfortable for years.
Part of reassessing “home” means wondering why, when I think of my family, I get stressed out; why it makes me want to go to a safe spot to consider comfort. In the wake of the election, like many others in my situation, I reassessed what it was I already knew about the people who raised me. What I had allowed to happen around me for the sake of comfort. I found I could not live with it anymore and could not bear the thought of supporting it.
I stopped showing up for family dinners. Stopped returning calls. Stopped being available. In return, this meant I needed to fill the void with the comfort and safety that I’d been previously lacking. I turned more often than not to the place that always took care of me, the place I always wanted to be whenever I was sad, whenever I was happy.
I went to 7-Eleven on Christmas Day, the first one I’d spent alone. I went there after I found out that I’d sold my first novel — I bought a bottle of champagne, and we toasted together in the store, me and the cashier. I found myself sharing more of my life — not just my time, but actual pieces of myself with the…
