***This is a writing prompt from BlogHer October’s NaBloPoMo. Posts such as this will be listed under My Life Revealed to give more insight into me, my life and my journey and how I got to where I am today.***
List two things (however close or far) that your current home is between.
I don’t remember much of the “good” part of my childhood from the time I was born and the time my dad left. He and my bio-mother divorced when I was nine years old and my brothers and I moved from my childhood home into what would turn into my hell on earth.
The years from ten to nineteen were tumultuous, to say the least. When I was ten, my bio-mother remarried an alcoholic who, when not on a drinking binge, was very kind. When he binged, though, he was mean to her and the only consolation was that he would leave and not return until his binge was over and that would sometimes last six months. They had two children together, little girls, and added to my brothers, who were two and four years my junior, left me, the theoretical adult, responsible for four children, while the actual adults gallivanted from bar to bar.
When I was eleven, my dad remarried a responsible, caring widow woman with two children. My new step-brother was two years younger than me, making him the same age as my one younger brother, and my new step-sister was the same age as me. That was actually kind of cool. I had two baby sisters, but they weren’t any fun. All they did was cry, eat and poop. THIS sister was fun! We could talk, listen to music and play. Nevertheless, these mixed families were a combination of confusion and novelty. The one with my bio-mother during the week was frightening and harsh. The fighting, drinking, poverty and drama left me anxious and insecure. The one with my dad and step-mother was sort of like the Brady Bunch, except Alice, the cleaning lady, didn’t live with us—she cleaned once a week and her name wasn’t Alice. No wonder I was confused.
I used to pray to God, and any other unearthly divinity, to save me from my torturous weeks, but none came to my rescue. My dad, however, showed up EVERY Friday to sweep me away to a Brady-Bunch lifestyle for two and a half days of three square meals a day, shopping trips to the mall, family fun and kid stuff, only to return me to my waking nightmare. Why I didn’t divulge to him the distress I was REALLY living, to this very day, I truly don’t know the exact answer. I think one reason was, as a kid, I had some delusion that if I told him the truth I would’ve been betraying my bio-mother. It was only after I began my challenging journey of emotional healing that I realized I didn’t owe her any loyalty.
I met my current husband when I was only sixteen. We married when I was twenty-one going on twenty-two and purchased our house the following year when I was twenty-two going on twenty-three and we’ve been here ever since. I won’t lie and say our marriage has been peaches, cream, kittens and puppy dogs. Although we’ve had our share of puppy dogs and are planning another next month.
We’ve had plenty of ups and downs, bumps and ruts, but all in all, with all things considered, we’ve done pretty darn well and I’m a very happy woman. Something I never imagined I’d say when I first began therapy all those years ago. It’s probably going to sound strange to some, but my dream was never one of a big wedding with me walking down an aisle in a flowing white lace wedding dress. MY one true dream was to have a safe, secure place that I could call home.
I look around my house now and realize I achieved, surpassed even, my dream. I have happiness, security and my home and it’s between hell and heaven.
There are moments, though, when I’m sitting at my desk in my den tapping away on my computer or times when my sons are in our game room laughing with their friends or even times when my husband is building something that I want for our home and I think that I might actually be in heaven.