The house that I grew up in is a significant part of my story. It was a small house located in suburban Chicago. My Dad worked hard to buy that house because it was connected to his service in WWII. Like many of his generation, he bought the house with a VA home loan. I'm pretty sure that the purchase of the house was a sign of hope and a source of pride for my parents. If I'm remembering correctly, the house was purchased because my parents wanted to provide a safe, nurturing place for their children to grow up. I remember my parents joyfully telling me about the first time they allowed me to play in the grass in my new front yard. As they told me, the grass scared me at first. Then it provided me with a place to run and play. The house was really pretty when it was first bought. It had just enough room for our small family. It also had a wonderful backyard with lots of trees and a small hill to roll down. Nirvana for a small child.
As my mother became mentally ill and deteriorated, the house became more like a prison than a place of joy. It grew progressively more dirty. And the arguments sent me scurrying into my bedroom to escape. It was also a place that shamed me because it had a big picture window. I always imagined that everybody could see our family dysfunction. While the house didn't really have any responsibility for what was going on, it became part of the problem in my mind. As soon as I could, I made every effort to escape. As an adult, I lived far away and rarely visited. That wasn't an accident. The end result was that I wasn't personally available as the lives of my parents wound down. I heard everything over the phone. Really a very disconnected way of dealing with things.
I recently followed the example of a good friend and looked up the property. The house, built in 1954, has gone on. It had a huge renovation after my Mom left. The new owners had to renovate. It was in pretty bad shape after my Mom lived there. I've had dreams through the years in which I went back and lived in that house. I was always focused on the renovation...wanting to make it the home of pride and joy it started out to be. When I looked at the home online, I noticed that some of the change wasn't what I would have chosen. There was a magnolia tree that was cut down from in the front of the kitchen window. I loved the flowers on that tree. But overall, I could tell that the new owners have cared for the property. The little house looked more joyful to me. And that led to the recognition that the house wasn't a prison. It was another victim of my Mom's mental illness. It reflected our pain. But it didn't cause it. Another layer of peace. The fact is that I did have good times in that house. It was an illness that robbed us of joy. Not a place. And I don't have to run away anymore. Maybe I will eventually visit in person. I think I owe that house a big apology. And maybe a little gratitude for the fact that it housed us during the tough times.
Have you found yourself looking at times in your life differently as you've come to a new understanding? I'd love to hear from you about that. Let's talk! Sending much love........
As my mother became mentally ill and deteriorated, the house became more like a prison than a place of joy. It grew progressively more dirty. And the arguments sent me scurrying into my bedroom to escape. It was also a place that shamed me because it had a big picture window. I always imagined that everybody could see our family dysfunction. While the house didn't really have any responsibility for what was going on, it became part of the problem in my mind. As soon as I could, I made every effort to escape. As an adult, I lived far away and rarely visited. That wasn't an accident. The end result was that I wasn't personally available as the lives of my parents wound down. I heard everything over the phone. Really a very disconnected way of dealing with things.
I recently followed the example of a good friend and looked up the property. The house, built in 1954, has gone on. It had a huge renovation after my Mom left. The new owners had to renovate. It was in pretty bad shape after my Mom lived there. I've had dreams through the years in which I went back and lived in that house. I was always focused on the renovation...wanting to make it the home of pride and joy it started out to be. When I looked at the home online, I noticed that some of the change wasn't what I would have chosen. There was a magnolia tree that was cut down from in the front of the kitchen window. I loved the flowers on that tree. But overall, I could tell that the new owners have cared for the property. The little house looked more joyful to me. And that led to the recognition that the house wasn't a prison. It was another victim of my Mom's mental illness. It reflected our pain. But it didn't cause it. Another layer of peace. The fact is that I did have good times in that house. It was an illness that robbed us of joy. Not a place. And I don't have to run away anymore. Maybe I will eventually visit in person. I think I owe that house a big apology. And maybe a little gratitude for the fact that it housed us during the tough times.
Have you found yourself looking at times in your life differently as you've come to a new understanding? I'd love to hear from you about that. Let's talk! Sending much love........
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