I will be completely honest…the house I am living in now in NO WAY reflects my personality or my habits. My parents had this house built back in 1972. They have never remodeled it. They have never spruced it up. My dad made it clear that he was not putting any money into this house, and it shows. There is damage from all of the domestic violence that has gone on in here over the years. The walls are dingy and yellowed, stained with years of nicotine (I am the only non-smoker of the family). The house is full of clutter; my parents kept everything and raised my brother and I to do the same. We were warned never to be wasteful…only the wealthy can afford to throw things away. You must either sell it, fix it, or give it away. Of course, that never happened, and we have the house full of stuff to prove it. This house has never truly been a home. A home is a place where you can go to feel safe, relaxed, warm and loved. It is a place that you enjoy being in; a place where you want to go. For years, this was a place I dreaded coming to…a place of fear, pain, and unspeakable horrors. I always cringe when I absolutely have to let somebody in to this place, because I know they will assume that I have done all of this damage on my own. I see the look in their eyes; it just adds to the years of humiliation and shame. THIS HOUSE DOES NOT DEFINE ME. I did not make this mess, I did not neglect this house. I was much too busy just trying to survive in it to care about anything else. Whenever I go to visit other people and they say to me "Sorry about the mess" I just look at them and say… "I came to see you, not your house." No judgments, no assumptions, no kidding. If only people would afford me the same courtesy…

Powered by Plinky

Advertisements