Home

Home,

I often wonder about the dynamic of how I learned to treat my childhood house and how I've treated you: Filling it with unhelpful, unnecessary items, so there was no room nor funds for essentials; Hastily, shoving the embarrassing things in boxes and closets so guests only saw a very minimal part of my family's messiness; Getting overwhelmed by the amount of shit to the point of watching documentaries about hoarding-this and Marie Kondo-that to figure out how to manage the mounting responsibilities. All of this, to the point of purging all we could.

...Only to fill up the rooms with more things that could never fill the void our hearts carried.

And just when we got the intake and expelling of the excessive amount of possessions organized and under control, our worries and grief consumed us, and the unhealthy pattern of restrict, binge, purge, continued.

It is no wonder the chaos I lived in physically created chaos in my brain-space, leading the way to tumultuous patterns emerging in both my childhood house and my physical body; my home.

Amidst all the stress, hardships, frustrations, and wrongdoings; the stains on the carpets and the fires we put out, my childhood house still stands. And in the same way, you, my home, you remain standing.

The foundation of my childhood house in The-Middle-Of-Nowhere, Iowa, is cracked and caving in in several locations. The observant child I was, I noted these fractures immediately and brought them to the attention of my parents. When my concerns were shooed away, because cracks were "normal", I tried hard not to worry about the glaring problems in our foundations. They were normal.

However, my worries could not be done away with. There were obvious problems that went ignored by most. That is, until the problems, the cracks, go wider and deeper. I made my worries about the foundation known, time and time again. My words were ignored, however, up until I brought my parents face-to-face with the cracked, now bowing, walls. They acknowledged the problem and ignored it, much like the growing piles of unnecessary items that took over the upper floors.

Until the doors no longer closed because the house was now off-kilter did reinforcements come. When the problems with the foundation affected more people in the house other than me, that's when action was taken.

It was then I learned things have to get worse before they get better.

It was then I learned my individual needs must come last.

Anchored Walls placed mechanisms deep in the ground to support the foundation. The staff that placed them reminded my parents, "The bolts must be tightened 90 degrees every three months", to help the foundation settle into its rightful place once more; keeping it from caving in again. Though still cracked, the walls were now supported, so long as the support was kept up with.

For a while the upkeep of the foundation was ideal but soon fell by the wayside. It seems that only when I sound the alarm about the cracks looking bigger than they should when I come to visit my childhood house do my parents pull out the wrench, somewhat annoyed by the reminder. However, the house still stands. And for that, I am grateful.

And just as the story of my childhood house goes, my body, my home; You still stand.

My childhood house doesn't have too much curb appeal. The color is dreary; it's an odd layout; the windows and deck need updated. The paint is uneven, and the foundation, cracked and bowed, can be seen from the outside. The garden is overgrown and we even have plants in big plastic storage containers out front, much to the neighbors' dismay. My brother's gravestone is in the small garden by the garage and his ashes are in a medicine bottle covered beneath the earth. It's odd to have a sibling buried in your front yard, and even more curious that what grows around their memory are mostly weeds rather than flowers.

Yet again, this metaphor perfectly relates you, my body; my home. This is how I've learned to live in you. Much like my childhood house and its lawn ornaments have been ravaged by noise pollution from my father's shouting late into the days and my sister's screams at nights; by drunk drivers that lose control and end up on our front yard, taking out everything in their path; by our too-many animals destroying window screens and wooden trims; by the near-holes in our walls from my sister's tantrums; to the grief and breakages in its very foundation; you, my body; my home...

You have been ravaged by illness, by grief, by bad choices made by Yours Truly, as well as many others' decisions.

You have been ravaged by greed; by the eyes of your father; by the unwanted flashes of the camera held in the hands of a girl you had come to think of as a friend before the shower you thought you were taking alone in the bathroom she decided to walk in on.

You have been ravaged by assault; by rape; by rusty nails; by broken glass; by staples; by razors.

You have been ravaged by cruel words; some of the cruelest coming from my own mouth.

You have been ravaged by deprivation; by purging; by dehydration; by malnourishment.

You have been ravaged more times than I can list; more times than I want to face.

You have been ravaged.

Yes, you have been ravaged. But you have not been destroyed.

You, my body. My home.

You, much like my childhood house, still stand. You, despite it all, still stand.

And just as I have spent my life embarrassed by and apologizing for my childhood house for the way it looks, functions, and its foundation needing constant help, I have spent much of my life doing the same by you, my body; my home.

Much like my childhood house, you've been painted, bruised, and broken in areas. You've grown and you've shifted. You've morphed and you've changed. You're left scarred and scared. Yet, at the end of the day, at the ends of every day, you, my body, my home; You, much like my childhood house; you've stayed standing.

Though it is so difficult to see past your physical attributes, your faults, and your history, I appreciate you both.

For you both have stayed standing.