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Normal Doesn’t Live Here

I'm having company around 8 pm, girl's night, a last minute arrangement. I'm tired and part of me feels like it'll be stimulation overload but I could use a bit of entertainment. Before that happens I need to purge for clarity. I need to write a few things to get them out of my head so I can function with company.

My head is going and hasn't stopped. I remember something. I remember my mother's bedroom my sophomore year in high school. I remember every inch of the room. I can visually walk through it. I remember at times wanting to be in there while she was away. I wanted to sit on the bed and look at how stunningly beautiful it was. I wanted to listen to the record player while watching the sun go down. I knew I'd be in trouble for going in there but I couldn't resist listening to "Total Eclipse of the Heart" while watching the sun go down. Who knew when she'd be home. She had a second life then, one that included leaving for ski trips or going to the islands with that jackass she dated. She had a second life which was a reprieve for my sister and for me. Things were still bad, but bad was manageable, especially since we'd grown up with mind splitting horror.

I remember still thinking she was beautiful. The woman who was still abusing me was still beautiful in my eyes. The person I feared the most in life, the one who showed me what pain means, was still beautiful and could still be surrounded by beauty. I thought it was awesome to have a tree in my room. I thought it was even better that she had two in hers. I had a jukebox with flashing lights and Corey Hart records in it. I'd turn all the lights off, kneel down in a little ball and listen to "Never Surrender" with a belly full of pain. I never want to hear that song again. I used to write him all the time, at least once per month.

I don't recall moving in to the many homes I lived in with her. It feels like I suddenly woke and just lived there until we left. Sometimes we left quickly, other times there was adequate time. Moving always meant leaving behind valued possessions.

Sophomore year...I don't recall her being the one to decorate the house but I do remember she wasn't ashamed of her heritage. It was on the walls. That was the cleanest house we ever lived in. Only a few times did we live in a clean environment with her. It was usually at least ankle high with trash. I don't recall roaches but I do remember maggots and mice. I know for certain my need for things to be just so comes from the horrible housekeeping habits of my mother. Hardly anyone ever came in the house because it was filthy.

The 2nd grade I only remember her room having a bed and dresser with a small TV. We all three slept in her bed together. We watched TV on her bed, did homework on her bed, were abused on her bed and read the Bible on her bed. We ate pizza on her bed and waded through ankle high trash to get there.

She functioned at work quite well I assume. She had a great career. We lived in nice places...places that were nice on the outside then full of garbage and emotional destruction after we moved in. Hardly ever did we fully unpack. Usually our boxes stayed packed right up until the time we moved again or we just left the boxes packed and moved without them. Normal wasn't ever in our home, not ever. There were houses that were clean and times she fed us well but normal didn't live with us.

Earlier tonight I took a short walk. I've got some moss and bark to sort through. I hit the mother load! Some kids stripped bark off a tree to write their names in a heart. I bake it in my toaster oven for art so I can remove anything bad that might be in it. I've also got a huge stockpot for boiling bark and what not. Part of what I got will be for the dollhouse yard. I should have gone to Lowes today but it didn't happen.

Jordan

Published on Categories Abuse, PTSD, The People Behind My Eyes

About Faith

SUNDRIP – Art for Life is a site that expresses in every media possible an intimate look into the life of a person living with major trauma. The issues addressed in art and writing include Dissociative Identity Disorder, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Lupus and CRSD. Despite these issues, I intend to move forward, through and out with honor, grace and creativity.

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