Home Is Where The Hurt Is

Home was supposed to be a safe haven. Somewhere I could seek refuge from the hardships of the world. I wanted to be wrapped in the warm embrace of security. Instead, I feel the dark tendrils closing around me. Day in and day out. No relief.

A simple, modest home. The exterior of the house was beige and boring. Completely unassuming from the street. A large open front porch sat almost untouched by us. Except for my dad who would occasionally go out there to smoke instead of in the house. A bountiful orange tree was positioned in the side yard. The house may have looked unkempt from the street but otherwise normal and mediocre. Inside was different. Inside the house was dark. Dingy. Dirty. Hand and foot prints made from dirt somehow found themselves high on the wall. As if someone had defied gravity and ran on all fours across the ceiling. Trash sat in heaps all around the house. Shifted around but never actually picked up. Shutting the front door caused cockroaches to scatter across the dirt splattered walls.

Each bedroom had a bare mattress on the floor with a single sheet and a bare pillow to match. Clothes were not in dressers or closets or even hampers. If I needed clothes for that day, I had to go to my parents room and approach the large pyramid of clothes piled in the corner. Noone would walk our dog so this is where he would relieve himself. I chose my school clothes from this pile everyday.

Somehow, none of this was the worst of it. The smell that affronted you as soon as you entered the home, was downright offensive to the senses. It was a mix of uncleanliness and waste. Our toilet had stopped working and instead of trying to fix it or get a new one, the “adults” who were responsible for me, simply out a trash bag in the bowl of the toilet. No one would want to change the bag when it got too full so it would just sit there for weeks. Making the entire dwelling smell like a port-o-potty. I would walk to the gas station to go to the bathroom everyday.

Entering the home always made me feel uncomfortable. I knew this is where I was supposed to be but it didn’t feel right. It felt wrong to feel so comfortable in the midst of such disarray. Leaving the house was always worse though. I would have to leave the house and go out into the world with a bug infested backpack, clothes that smelled like dog pee, unbrushed hair and dirt all over me. It was proof. Proof that no one cared enough to do the simplest things for us. Proof that at just 8 years old, I had already gotten the short straw in life.