What is mine

 This morning after the usual waking rituals of tea, breakfast and morning talk, I went to the next ritual of get dressed.  I noticed myself carefully picking up my bed clothes, folding them and putting them in the dresser that is my space. Then I thought about why. 
In my house and life with Mr Footless I next to never did this.  In that place and time I did not pick up and put away, sort, gather, or throw away.  the house reflected this in a disordered mess that was both infuriating and very comforting. It was mine and therefore I could put it away or not.  So I didn't.
In the places that I have been living over the last months, I have tried to be very very respectful of the shelter that I have been offered.  So why?
I seem to have a very deeply ingrained sense of mine and thine.  The training of don't touch what isn't yours has been written inside my head with a flaming sword.
Well, I have lived in places all my life that were not mine.  The only place that has been mine as in I bought it I take care of it it is mine has been shared with Mr Footless and his sense of space made having space to myself that I could order or not as I chose difficult or impossible as his disorders and pain have gotten greater and more uncontrollable over the last years.
Suddenly I sit here with tears in my eyes and a sense of dislocation and loss.  I have no place I call mine to lay my head, to keep my things.
Every day I must be so careful not to trespass on the space and ownership of the very kind people that have generously given me a place to stay.
Every day I have it in my lap that I am here because I can't go back to  live in a place with such insanity in residence. 
What has me in tears is the strong awareness that All of my life I have felt that I had to toe that line.  Inspite of all the kindness I have had showered on me I feel a burden and unwelcome, intrusive and unable to avoid intruding.
It's a broken place and I can't see how to mend it.