Sometimes I feel like I’m on some sort of Truman-meets-Hoarders reality show.
[Warning: if you’ve never seen The Truman Show, this does contain spoilers, so read at your own risk. Also, watch The Truman Show. Whether you finish reading this or not. Because it’s a good movie.]
I grew up as a COH. That’s no surprise to anyone who’s been reading this blog or . . . probably anyone who read the title of this blog. Yeah.
Anyway! But the thing is, all while growing up in that house, I didn’t know the world was watching and saying, “Something isn’t right here.”
It’s amazing how long the world can watch and not do anything. I’m so grateful for those people–my own Laurens and people popping out of packages–who told me that something wasn’t right. They helped me explore my life and realize that I didn’t have to stay there.
Of course, I didn’t have a whole major conspiracy of people trying to keep me trapped. More like . . . my own personal team of depression and guilt and fear and other silent assailants. And, of course, my parents, who kept me fooled, not by being good actors toward me, but by keeping themselves fooled.
Still, I eventually realized the truth. And through a storm of turmoil and self-doubt, I stayed the course, determined to get away. But then the skies cleared, the water was smooth sailing, the wind was in my hair . . . and I hit a wall.
But here is where my story caught in a mess and Truman’s caught on television no longer run parallel.
Because Truman walked out a door. Me . . . well, I’m still digging through the junk, trying to find the door. I know it’s got to be around here somewhere.
Again, I’m so grateful for my helpers–my counselor, my husband, several friends, one sister, and you, my readers, all helping me dig, chuck the unnecessary, sort through the necessary, and generally just try to find that door. (You understand, of course, that though the door is figurative, the mess is mostly figurative but somewhat literal as well.) And sometimes it seems like I’m so close to the door!
But then I have conversations like the one with a friend last night:
“I’m sorry for the state of the house. I was almost caught up, then I got sick.”
“Actually . . . no offense, but . . . I can’t tell the difference.”
And I bang on the wall in frustration and scream, “LET ME OUT!”
Like I said, sometimes I feel like I’m close. So close that I turn to the world and say, “In case I don’t see you, good afternoon, good evening, and good–oh, great, now what’s in the way?”
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Please note: I do not approve of swearing, and will not approve comments with excessive swears, including using the name of God as an expletive, but if I receive a comment with a swear or two in an otherwise acceptable comment, I will still approve it. The views expressed in the comments are the views of the person sharing them, not my own, and will be approved based on respect and readability [if I can’t figure out what you’re trying to type, it’s not getting approved] rather than agreement.
“LET ME OUT!”
That is such a perfect phrase to use in these instances. For COHs, the walls are multi-layerd: the hoard, the stupid conditions that our HPs place on us in order to be worthy of their love, and of course, our own PTSD and other subsequent trauma from living in their filth– almost like a parting gift to remember our childhoods by.
When I first moved away, I had challenges in not repeating the situation from where I came from. Looking back, I realize that it was a symptom of my own depression. That is perfectly normal and I’m happy to say that my life is much better. My son often complains when I give him chores because “our house is clean enough” and when compared to our friends and family, he’s right. That is no excuse in my world.
Be thankful to have friends who can be honest with you like you mentioned above. They are the ones that no matter how much it may hurt to hear their perspective, they care enough about you to give it.
Lastly, be kind to yourself. You’ve mentioned in previous posts that you have a small child and that alone is a full time job. Even the cleanest of individuals have challenges when it comes to the early years of motherhood. Do what you can and ask for help if you need it. If the house isn’t a museum at the end, so what?!
Isn’t it interesting how we grew up with these impossible standards that we could never meet, only to bring that into our adulthoods and torture ourselves? I’m discovering that I still have a lot of that I carry with me.
Hang in there friend! You will get there!!