My Dear Gray House,
How have you been? I haven’t seen you in a while. Did your porch stop leaking? Did you get a new washing machine? I haven’t been checking in as much as I should and I know that’s my fault. I think about you often and wonder what you’re up to now, what problems you’re making that keep the family so busy. They don’t call. I guess I expected to miss you more, like I’m supposed to, like everyone else does. Maybe there’s something wrong with me.
But can’t you feel it too? How heavily things have changed between us? I thought we used to be so close, but the distance has me drifting, contemplating. I think you used to be home, but now I’m not sure that you are, or even that you ever were. That sounds harsh, and I’m sorry. But I know you have to sense it too. I know you tried to take care of me. I wish I could have taken better care of you and put in more effort to learn to love you. Maybe then things would be different. Maybe then it wouldn’t be painful to see you.
I hope you understand this isn’t the result of anything you did. The toxicity was never caused by you, how could it be? It was my mind and body that held me hostage within you. The problem now is that I cannot disassociate that despair and suffocation from you.
I had to leave to get rid of it, to get out of it. I had to get away from you, but looking back I realize it wasn’t you I had to run away from. You were simply the sheath, not the sword. I see that now.
Maybe that was all I needed for us to fix this. I want to fix it, I hope you do too. I don’t want to dread seeing you, being with you. I don’t want to feel guilty for wanting to stay away, for wanting to stay here. Here I don’t have to worry about the hurt of the past. Here I am not even the person who felt that pain; I am entirely new. This room is bright and colorful; the posters paper-maché my identity on the walls, my favorite books line up on the shelves, and my green backpack rests patiently on the floor. Here I am new and safe and myself. I know you wanted to be that for me, but you couldn’t.
I forgive you. I hope you can forgive me for leaving. You’ll always be a part of me. You helped me realize that home cannot simply be the place I grew up or the place I discovered pain or even the place I discovered happiness. Home is simply wherever I feel peace being within my body. Home is lying under trees in parks, drinking tea in bakeries, debating in classrooms, pulsing in roaring concerts, walking on busy streets, crying under stained glass windows, wandering among bookshelves; home is enjoying being inside my body.
It wasn’t always like that, and I wouldn’t have found that without you. So what I’m trying to say I guess is: thank you. Next time I see you, we can fix it. Now that I’ve told you, I hope you can understand.
I’m better now.
I’m happier now.
And I want to share that with you.
Until then, stay well and I will see you soon, Lillian