“Home is where the heart is”
I tend to think home is where the pain is.
My father’s house was my home for twenty-eight years of my life.
However to me, it was more like a prison.
I was trapped and contained there after my parent’s divorce, only for my sentence to end two and a half years ago. For fifteen years I was entangled in his world of abuse, lies and anger. I was only allowed in certain rooms at certain times, there were thousands of rules to abide by and if they were broken – numerous punishments would follow. I had daily chores and expectations to meet and although there were no cameras documenting me, I was under his watchful eye at all times. Any mistake, any fault and there would be no way out.
My bedroom became my prison and my sanctuary. I would escape their as soon as I came home from work. I would hide there and lock my door as he violently slammed his hands against the wood making me shake, I would binge on food there and feel guilty about it afterwards, I’d cry silently and weep incessantly there, I’d play music on the highest volume to drown his insults out.
Mostly, I would look out of my window and into the unreachable world.
I needed freedom. I needed to escape.