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lonesparkThis house is haunted with memories. Even when my parents aren't here, this house is the house where I was a child, and where I am not a fully independent adult.
This house is where my parents fought, and where they still do, except it's less fighting and more...being upset in their incompatible, conflicting ways. So it is a fight, but they're not upset at at each other. They're upset at other things, but they're hurting each other.
This house is where I hid my boyfriend from my parents, but later didn't hide the condoms well enough, and I learned (but had to learn again, and again, forever) that conflict is better than secrets and lies.
This house is where I fought with my parents, and lied to them.
This house is where I started sliding down the slippery slope, away from mental and emotional well-being. And that's simplistic, I guess, because this house is where I learned a bunch of coping strategies before I learned to write my name, but no one told me what coping meant, or that if you couldn't do it there was help.
This house is where I have been too many times caught between my husband and my parents, and no one seems to realize that I'm not on anyone's "side" because I get to have my own voice.
This house is the place my grandmother left for the hospital to die. But she always wanted to die at home, hopefully in her own home in another state.
This house is full other people's stuff.
This house if full of my stuff. Stuff in boxes. Stuff that needs sorted but I can't do it, in large part because this stuff is what's left of a life where I felt I had a purpose and an identity beyond "mom who doesn't have her shit together." It's outdated paper that needs recycled, but it's relics of a vocation I loved and lost.
This house is full of my kids' stuff. Stuff that gets broken and lost. Stuff that needs sorted but won't be, because I can't teach them how to do things I can't do myself.
This house is full memories that hold me back.
This house is where my parents fought, and where they still do, except it's less fighting and more...being upset in their incompatible, conflicting ways. So it is a fight, but they're not upset at at each other. They're upset at other things, but they're hurting each other.
This house is where I hid my boyfriend from my parents, but later didn't hide the condoms well enough, and I learned (but had to learn again, and again, forever) that conflict is better than secrets and lies.
This house is where I fought with my parents, and lied to them.
This house is where I started sliding down the slippery slope, away from mental and emotional well-being. And that's simplistic, I guess, because this house is where I learned a bunch of coping strategies before I learned to write my name, but no one told me what coping meant, or that if you couldn't do it there was help.
This house is where I have been too many times caught between my husband and my parents, and no one seems to realize that I'm not on anyone's "side" because I get to have my own voice.
This house is the place my grandmother left for the hospital to die. But she always wanted to die at home, hopefully in her own home in another state.
This house is full other people's stuff.
This house if full of my stuff. Stuff in boxes. Stuff that needs sorted but I can't do it, in large part because this stuff is what's left of a life where I felt I had a purpose and an identity beyond "mom who doesn't have her shit together." It's outdated paper that needs recycled, but it's relics of a vocation I loved and lost.
This house is full of my kids' stuff. Stuff that gets broken and lost. Stuff that needs sorted but won't be, because I can't teach them how to do things I can't do myself.
This house is full memories that hold me back.
