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Our House. His Home.

Home is where the heart once was.

By Jessica GillPublished 3 years ago 8 min read
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Our House. His Home

Written by Jessica L. Gill

It bothered me that he never fixed the wood floors.

Those floors were almost perfect.

Perfect for stretching.

Perfect for dancing.

But, one twist too many?

My feet would be cut open and bleed.

It bothered me that even after the mattress stabbed me -

He still couldn't find cause to replace it.

He was convinced that it just need to be rotated and flipped.

That mattress was over twenty-years-old.

Twenty years old!

The lumps, the bumps, the concave divots

The dips - I would often lay down and wonder...

How many other women had laid there?

How many of them had convinced themselves that he was the one?

How long had I laid there convinced that he was the one?

Six-and-a-half years.

I believed that he was going to be the last man I was ever going to love.

It this thinking that inspired me to turn his house into our home.

But after six-and-a-half years...

"Our" home was still his house and this fact didn't change.

It didn't matter that I cleaned "our" home, it was still his house.

It didn't matter that I organized "our" home, it was still his house.

It didn't matter that I painted "our" home, it was still his house.

"Our" home? "Our" home? OUR home!

But it wasn't.

His house. HIS house. His house...

Marriage? Kids? Oh! that will all happen one day.

Only -

It was nothing but empty promises and constant placation.

ALL so I would still clean -

ALL so I would still organize -

ALL so I would still paint -

ALL so I would maintain his house.

ALL because he loved the way I loved him.

But after six-and-a-half years of the promise of "one day" I broke.

Tired of the endless and hallow assurances,

I took down the pictures of our home.

I removed the sheets from the bed of our home.

I stripped the paint off the walls of our home.

I stopped dancing in our home.

I stopped cooking in our home.

I stopped singing in our home.

I stopped loving him in our home.

I summoned my courage and left our home

and then, I left him alone in his house.

Now, I sit at home with my parents.

A home in which I must rebuild my life and reclaim my independence.

A home where I would sit and wallow in depression.

A home where I am now questioned each day.

A home where my parents feel more sympathy for him.

A home where my parents give me side eye.

A home where I must now lie about new found happiness and joy.

A home where I feel loved but unwanted.

A home where I contend with myself each and every day.

A home where I feel like a failure.

A home where I am stuck and cannot drive.

A home where I now work minimum wage.

A home with a roof over my head - where I must work and save for a year

and then it's back out into the world, where I will be left alone to survive.

A home where I am meant to figure myself out.

A home where I feel more alone each day.

A home where I don't feel seen.

A home where I feel judged each day.

A home with a mother who said that she didn't want me there.

A home with a father who wants me to just be myself.

A home where I met another man.

A home where I realized that yes, I can.

A home where I realized that yes, I will.

A home that I cannot wait to walk away from.

A home that I do not plan to return to.

This poem was written in September 2021 as a way to cope with the painful dissolution of a long-term relationship and the realization that I would have start my life completely over.

I met Marcus back in the winter of 2015. I remember his laugh and his smile and wanting to be close to him. When we had our first unofficial date, it was serendipitous. It was as though the world was opening up and making way for us. I was caught up in the romance, the twinkling lights on the trees that lit up the Gaslamp in downtown San Diego. I was focused on holding his hand and being embraced by him and when that first kiss happened, it was as though time had come to a standstill. That all that mattered in that very moment was the two of us.

For years, I would go on to fall deeper in love with a man who did love me in return but after years of placation, it became apparent that his love for me only extended so far. I found myself being used as a prop to amuse his prejudice family. I found that I was always bending over backward for a man who would barely bend for me. I spent most of my time trying to live up to whatever unspoken expectation he had of me. I worked while maintaining his household. I gave him pleasure when he wanted it. I cooked. I cleaned. I baked cakes for family gatherings. I went to every single hockey game to showcase my support. I was truly there for him and while I was there for him, he was not there for me.

As an artist, a lot of my ventures blew up in my face. I faced one failing after another but even looking into the sneering face of failure, I would get back up and try again. But these efforts were overlooked and each project thereafter was met with side-ways glances and sarcastic commentary.

It seemed that nothing I did was ever going to be good enough and so when he told me that the reason he didn't want to get married and have kids was because he wanted to be financially secure, I stood back and nodded with full understanding. I then gathered myself with steely resolve and worked towards creating the financial stability. I budgeted. I set goals. I planned ahead. I prided myself in my pragmatism. However, with all of the energy, I would often tire myself out and find myself dragged through the deep trenches of depression. My anxiety blossomed until I suffered from panic attacks over such trivial things.

It wasn't until he took out a credit card and purchased a $1500 hunting bow that I realized that his not wanting to get married and have children wasn't about being financially secure. It was just that he prioritized his own happiness above all and despite all of my best effort - despite doing it all, it was never enough and I did the hardest thing that I could think of. I walked away. Sure, he cried a few tears but the pain wasn't enough to prompt him to change. Instead, he made it known that he wanted me out.

It was this that truly broke me. For there was a part of me that had hoped that the potential of losing me would wake him up and open his eyes to see but he was never truly blind. So, I was forced to pack up my belongings and sell everything that I couldn't fit into two suitcases. Years of memories wiped out as if by a storm. I sat and sold my belonging to sympathetic neighbors who just couldn't understand how he could just let me go for they knew me. They knew all of what I had invested and to have to endure the humiliation of getting rid of everything that I had held dearly just to begin again, broke their hearts. It took everything that I had - all of the strength I could muster, not to take a pair of scissors and slice open my wrists. I wanted the pain to end. I didn't want to feel the anguish and emotional torment. I wanted him to see the pain he caused me. I wanted him to fall down to his knees in pain.

But I didn't.

Instead, I leaned on the support my best friend Devin. A man who was there for me when I felt more alone than ever. A man who helped keep my head up. A man who opened up the gray of the sky to reveal the promising blue underneath. And so when that day came when Marcus dropped me off at the airport and said goodbye, I felt brave enough to take on what came next. And what came next was moving home to restart my life again by living with my parents. Parents who felt no sympathy or pity when I wanted to break down and cry. Parents who made it known that their invitation for me to begin again only extends for a year. And now, I must spend that year working and saving up to stand again on my own.

I don't know that the future has in store for me but I know this, I plan on writing and keeping track of everything and sharing my story and thoughts with all of you. Whoever you are, it's my hope to shine light on the promise and the hopeful light that awaits at the end of the tunnel. It's my hope that I will discover a new world and find new people and find my place in this world.

heartbreak
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About the Creator

Jessica Gill

Writer who recently moved to Groton, Connecticut from San Diego, California. I love writing about a wide-variety of topic but I especially enjoy writing scary short-stories, creative non-fiction and poetry.

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