Is home where the heart is?

The child lied on her knees, ears pressed up against the door. She was straining to hear what was happening. Her heart beat so fast and hard it threatened to push out of her chest. The beats were so long and hard she strained against them to hear what was happening on the other side of the door. She was unable to hear clearly, so she bent even lower to try and see what was happening under the door. She did not have much room or view point but nonetheless she strained as hard as she could. She barely made out screams and what sounded like feet shuffling. All she could see was the movement of feet, facing each other against the wall. Her heart was pounding…she had never felt as much terror as she felt now. Her heart threatened to come out of her chest with each bang she heard on the other side of the door. Her mother was crying now. She clearly heard the sobbing. Her father’s voice was raised to anger. She could feel the words her father had said through the anger and clenched teeth. They echoed through her. She knew she had to do something. But what? What can a girl at the age of 8 possibly do when she herself was frozen in terror?

She couldn’t stand to hear it much longer. She raised herself to her knees and quietly leaned against the door, desperately trying to calm herself and think of what to do and how to help. She noticed the window across the room. An idea popped into her head. Since she was locked in her room, running out the door to try and get between her parents was impossible; however, she couldn’t stand the sounds of pain and torment coming from the other side of the door. Finally, it came to her…..the window; she could jump out of the window. Her heart was pounding louder. Yeah, they lived on the first floor. All she had to do was open the window and crawl out. BANG!! She jumped nearly out of her skin. Something broke. She heard her mother almost yelping in pain while her father sounded angry again. She jumped for the window. Struggled to open it. She was terrified and trying very hard to be as quiet as a church mouse in opening the window. It was the only way she could get out to get help. She climbed up and gently tried lowering herself outside. The harsh outside wall skidded her stomach, she winced in pain. She ignored the pain and ran to the neighbor’s house. The neighbors were also the landlord and knew her family well…..she had no place else to go.

She ran across the yard and almost walked into the door, unable to stop herself in time. She was running in fear of the welfare of her parents and fears that if they knew she got out…what would they do to her. She knocked as loud as she could until her knuckles were bare and in pain. Helen opened the door. She looked at her pleading eyes once and immediately ushered her in. She knew what had happened and immediately picked up the phone to dial 911. This was not the first time this poor girl showed up on her doorstep, frightened and panting as if she had been chased by a bear. The girl sat on the couch, legs shaking, constantly turning her head towards her own house. She was scared beyond belief since she didn’t know what to expect or what she would find when the police got here. Helen came over and tried to soothe her. She did not want soothing, she wanted to run back over and see what was happening. She knew Helen would not allow her to go until the police got there. It was the same story, same thing every time….and yet she still felt the need to run over and do something.

It seemed the same nightmare played in her head over and over. There was never an ending, no light at the end of the tunnel. It was the same nightmare that replayed in her household every single weekend. Her parents never failed to not drink and when they did, violence always ensued. She was 8, no other family near and no one to run to. She was scared and basically learned to take care of herself, make small meals, get to school, etc….but she was a timidly shy child and refused to tell anyone what was happening. She couldn’t imagine the shame and teasing that would start. After all, in her mind, no one else could possibly understand what she was going through. Her parents not only drank on the weekends, they drank everyday of every week. Not a sober moment to be found in the house. But the violence, ahh, that she was spared to only the weekends. She thanked God that it was not more frequent and yet could not understand how or why this was happening. She never felt a moment’s peace in her heart. The only emotions she recognized were pain, fear and absolute never ending torment. It was rather oppressive, and yet she held it all in. Her thoughts swirled in a vicious circle of confusion. The police sirens broke the thoughts and she jumped, slightly scared. She ran out the front door and met the police at her own front door. It never changed the end result I mean. She would have to explain what happened to the police. They got in her house. Her mother by now was usually on the couch, drunk as hell complaining of pain and bruising. Her father was usually on the floor against the wall in what seemed a coma. They always need an ambulance to come, and through smelling salts get him up. Then he would be arrested and taken to jail overnight, while she listened to her mother cry until the drunken stupor finally put her to sleep. The poor 8 year old was left alone in a completely demolished house. She usually started cleaning up, mopping up. She knew Sunday would be ok. Her father would come home and they both would be quiet and not drink. It was her only day of solace but the fear never left her heart.

This time, mopping the floor she found herself crying. Not silent tears, but rather sobbing out loud. Finally, when she couldn’t see through the tear stained eyes, she dropped the mop and fell on her knees sobbing her heart out. She couldn’t understand what she ever did to deserve this life. She would have rather been grounded an eternity but have her parents sober. That relief was never to come, although at that time she never knew it. That life continued for many more years, throughout her entire childhood. There were times she had seen her mother in an alcoholic coma. Terror was never so real until she walked in and her mother was passed out, half on her bed, half on the floor, drooling. So she kept her home life a secret due to shame and her school life and the trials and tribulations of kids away from her parents. She carried the weight of both on her shoulders, refusing to give either up. What a bad child she must have been, no one else she knew was going through this, so it must have been her fault. Those thoughts stayed with her for years, even as an adult.

I will say the problem was not just my father. While I do not condone violence of any kind towards any human being, I am fair. My mother was so deeply sedated in the alcohol, she was a pity princess. She needed to have someone always feel bad for her. It was an attention getter in every way. The sad part is when both parties are drunk; the desire for pity can be harsh. So you see, I blame both of them for the childhood nightmares I had and still do. Although as an adult I made conscious decisions to not allow myself to substance abuse anything and I swore I would never put anyone through that trauma again, I still live with it. I haven’t been able to get rid of all the memories. The sick memories, the sad ones or even the traumatic ones. Even this day, I still jump and get goose bumps when a door slams. I have forgiven everything that they have done, said or put me through as a child and do not use it as an excuse or crutch to warrant a pity train for myself.

My experience throughout my childhood has made me who I am today. I will say I would have rather passed on the experience, but nonetheless now I embrace it. It has made me a fighter, survivor and a much stronger woman than I would have been. It has taught me compassion and forgiveness, when I thought they were impossible to achieve. I also didn’t think it was possible to be hurt as an adult. Surprise, you never know how deeply hurt you can be at any age. But it does happen. You come to terms with it and stand firm in your decision to be a solid adult. That and compassion along with forgiveness are the hardest tasks to achieve when anger fills your heart. My wounds are still healing, slowly but surely…but each day gets easier. “Home is where the heart is” what cliché term. What if your heart never finds its home as mine hasn’t yet?