I hated growing up. My parents' house was in a lousy part of a lousy town in a lousy part of the state. What defines lousy is perhaps the apathy towards one's surroundings, or when empathy is present and only thoughts of utter dispair arise from within.
Going back, I have yet to say to myself, this isn't lousy. Nowhere is comparable to my current home, and I don't live in the nicest part of a nice town.
I had but one goal, and it was to leave. I don't understand how anyone else stayed.
Nothing is more depressing than knowing people you thought you understood or respected as a peer lack the lowest goal denominator of not willingly living with one's parents in middle age.
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