Three Years Ago
Sunday, January 22, 2012 at 6:01PM Three years ago I moved here into my little snug, a row away from my sister's apartment. She took me to choose paint for each room, and how I reveled in the luxury of being able to have color on walls, for once. This was the first time for me living alone, and it went hard with me until my youngest son moved in. Before he came I slept on the couch, afraid of the bedroom. I didn't understand why at the time; I thought maybe I'd grown so accustomed to having just one room to myself in someone else's home that I couldn't adjust to (what seemed at the time!) such a big place. I know now that my fear of sleeping in the bedroom, with no one else in the apartment, was fear of sudden night invasion.
I took great care in finding just the perfect spot for each of my possessions, thrilled at my newfound audacious freedom to put things any old place I chose. Curtains went up, framed photos and art work, and shelves for my Beatles memorabilia and my writing books.
Midge, my black and white cat, came to me here, and what a
pair we are, each suffering from an overactive startle reaction. Here too I spent hours with my brain-injured son, playing video games together, trying to adjust each weekend to his loud presence and the disruption of my daily routine--but all the time loving his good natured laugh and generous spirit.
I took pride in the rose bushes just outside my front door, their beauty and lovely scent evoking vague memories of my earlier childhood before I began losing myself.
Poems were forged here as I struggled to deal with my mother issues, especially during those times she visited my sister, much too close for comfort. I curled up on the couch suffering in silence while the rest of my family spent the holidays with her at my sister's; curled up and thought of suicide, wondering if I had the nerve for it after all.
Several times a week I had a full house for dinner, cooking big pots of stew or chicken soup, or tacos and meat loaf, laughing as Maddy asked for seconds and thirds, and then dessert. The family congregated in my tiny living room once or twice a month for rousing games of Trivial Pursuit or Pictionary.
I forced myself to paint my kitchen yellow, determined to overcome my aversion to it because of its association with childhood abuse. A year later, realizing I still didn't like it, I gave myself permission to paint its walls a light sage. This was good, this learning that it was okay to change my mind.
I reclaimed the ability to be able to soak in a nice hot bubble bath, for I resented deeply the fact that the bathtub held so many dark memories. Infrequently at first, but more and more as time went by, I relaxed into the hot water, loving how the bubbles sparkled in candlelight. I said many prayers in the tub, prayers as heartfelt as any I've known and murmured before or since.
A dear childhood friend and I, out of touch for a couple of decades, reconnected and here in my snug she played her guitar and soothed me with her songs. Here we laughed as we used to when we were scrawny kids, and discovered that the thread of friendship may have frayed over the years but it had never really been broken.
Here is where I first dreamed of publishing my book of poems. How my heartbeat quickened when I held the first copy in my hands, reverently turning the pages of my sorrow, a sorrow shot through with eternal hope. I'd managed to write a memoir of sorts in poetry form, and oh how I nearly had to glance down at my knees to doublecheck for scabs, so completely did my written words take me back to the dreariness of childhood.
My granddaughters and I made glitter pictures on my coffee table, laughing uproariously at the sparkly mess that ended up in our hair, on our clothes, and in the carpet. Here, in my humble home, I read them books, bathed them, trimmed their bangs, and watched episode after episode of Max and Ruby, Dora, and Spongebob. (I suspect my little alters enjoyed it right along with us!)
When I moved here I had no way of knowing how long my tenancy would last. About six months ago the random thought of, I'm going to be moving in the near future, struck me. I mulled it over, wondering if it was mere imagination or a nudge from the God I've loved since childhood. Where in the world could I possibly move to, barely being able to afford this place?
And then events in our family unwound in such a manner that here I sit, typing this, days away from moving into a house with my son and granddaughters.
I know that moving is always somewhat traumatizing for me. That's why I'm writing this. I'm so weary of repressing how things affect me--and no one asks me to, for crying out loud, I do it to myself. And so I thought, why not write about my memories of the last three years, and how it feels to be starting another brand new chapter of life?
And so: this is how I feel. Excited yet sad. Thankful for the many good times I've enjoyed within these four walls, but relieved to be moving on. Displaced and scared (for my littles are whispering their anxieties: how will they know how to find things in the new home, what if they don't like it, etc.)
I've wept many tears on my couch, in my bed, beseeching God to have mercy. And so He has, in abundance. I've learned these past few years that I can face whatever the future holds, for He goes before me, smoothing my pathway.
I've learned I'm not as fragile as I suppose, nor as strong as others see me.
I've discovered within me a voice filled with sorrow but the kind of sorrow which is sensitive to the slightest touch of love and grace. Not a bitter sorrow this, but one with the sting lessened every time a word or gesture or touch of mine eases the pain of another.
I'm not who I thought I was when I moved here.
God is not who I thought He was, either. I still don't know Him as I'd like to but no worries, we have all of eternity for that.
Here I've prayed for my sons and grandkids, for my sister and brother, for my friends and yes, even for the mother who so betrayed me. I can't afford to reconcile with her (I doubt such a thing is even possible), I've come to see, but I can care from a distance, I can ask for mercy on her behalf, and I do.
I'm leaving; soon the rooms will be empty of my belongings and the walls will no longer echo with my grandkids laughter or with the booming noise that erupts from me without warning. My routines will change, for I'll be sharing a home with more people. My boundaries will have to strengthen and I will need to learn to respect them. If I don't, no one else will.
I will hunger for privacy; I will wish once in a blue moon to be back here in my cramped little snug, away from the busyness of little girls and their ensuing noise and drama. But when I do, oh when I do may I remember that to everything there is a season. My life is about to be invaded, my privacy threatened, but for a very good reason. What joy it will be to know I contribute stability, protection, guidance and love to these two little girls who have been through so much this past year.
Three years ago I began this journey and now, just now, I pause long enough to acknowledge what each of my parts need me to acknowledge: that even if we are moving to a better place there will be trauma during the transition. That's it, they just want to be heard and have their feelings validated.
Three years ago...my how time flies when you're on the wild ride of growth and healing!





























