trauma responses, metabolized change
What happened was this: I moved into a house that was dirty. It felt unkept. The energy felt here was that it was a few empty rooms. It was not a home. When I brought it to my landlords attention, he yelled at me. The combination of moving away from my moms, into an unclean home that is controlled by a man who does not feel safe left me in a complete trauma response.
Being in a home that feels cozy, warm, taken care of makes me feel like a real person. When I lived with my dad, I was as neglected as his home. My dissociation would peak at his house, so much so that I no longer felt like a person in the world. Though I did not feel real, I did feel hopeless and dreadful. Being in spaces that remind me of his house on Baker Road still leave me feeling like nothing matters, like there is no point to anything. I felt like that when I moved into this home covered in dust. When my landlord responded to my concern with anger, I stayed calm on the phone, but I called my mom after and immediately began to sob. I kept saying I do not know why these things are so hard for me. I feel so stupid. She asked me what I wanted to do. I said I want out of my lease. I don’t want to live here.
That night, I would have paid any amount of money to be able to break my lease. I would have paid any amount of money to pack my car and start driving somewhere new with my dog in the passenger seat.
My mom told me to come home. I was scaring her, and she didn’t want me alone. I couldn’t stop crying. I kept wondering aloud what was wrong with me. It brought her (and me) back to when I would call her from UCLA. It was happening all over again. I felt stupid for believing this time would be different. I felt stupid for responding to overwhelm the same way, even seven years later. I felt like a basket case. I wanted to be seen as valid.
I secretly stayed at my mom’s house for three nights. I didn’t tell my sister or my friends or my coworkers because I was ashamed.
My landlord apologized, and though I did not want to come back here, the apology eased some of my dread. I forced myself to go back on Friday. I knew I could not stay at my mom’s forever. There was no legitimate way out of my lease; I was kicking myself out of the nest, facing the dread head on. It has been about nine nights since, and every night in this house has felt more settled than the last. Slowly, it has started to become more of a home. My heart doesn’t palpitate as intensely upon waking, and I do not need to give myself as convincing of a pep talk to get out of bed.
I can see now that I was in the throes of my trauma brain. Rightfully so. I hold an ocean’s worth of compassion for the part of me that was so terrified. I want to let her know that she can feel the overwhelm, the fear, the absolute urge to run, the craving to be at her mom’s house. It all makes sense and none of it makes her dramatic. I hold so much reverence for her. She is stronger than I give her credit for, and I wish I wasn’t so ashamed of her reactions. She deserves more than that.
I am proud of myself for coming back here, for riding the waves of overwhelm without making a drastic decision to flee. And I am also sad to be fully moved out of my mom’s for the first time. My bed is gone. So is my dresser and my nightstand. My room is empty. There is an echo in there now. I wish I would have taken a second to acknowledge little things, like how comforting it felt to wash my face with the bathroom door open so I could talk to her while she watched her nightly shows. How nice it was to say goodnight to her every night. To smell her coffee in the morning. Little things, it is always the little things.
The energy of spaces always changes when you are coming to them from a different perspective. Her home is no longer where I live, and I can feel that when I am there. It is not my home, but it will always be home. Does that make sense?
One of my friend often quotes that grief means to metabolize change. I have found myself repeating that as a mantra throughout this experience.