There's No Place Like Home ... Thank Goodness!

I was doing a little reminiscing not too long ago and decided to google the address of my childhood home. When I found the latest real estate listing, I was surprised by how little it has changed. The landscaping is a bit different, the lot is now fenced, there is a flag pole in the front yard, and there are a few other cosmetic changes and updates inside, but overall? It looks very much like it did in 1966 when my parents bought it new.

That window on the far left? That was my bedroom from the time I was 2 until I moved out at 19. There was one winter when the snow drifted all the way up to the bottom of that window - extremely unusual for the Seattle area. That is also the window I used to look out from for hours, waiting for my alcoholic father to make it home safely from whatever bar he was at that night.

That driveway? It's where I dropped and shattered an empty mayonnaise jar (I was catching bugs) when I was 8, then tried to pick up the shards of glass with my bare hands so I wouldn't get in trouble. I sliced open the side of my right hand. I still have the scar.

It's also where my dad, in a fit of drunken anger, threw his keys at me, splitting open my lip, because I had been talking to a guy on the airplane we had just been on. A guy who was old enough to be my father. My dad accused me of flirting with him and called me a slut (I was 14 - the guy was helping me with my calculus) right before saying, "I'll make sure you never think you're cute enough to do that again!"

17 years of my life, and as I sit here thinking about it, I can't come up with any great memories. In fact, it was a prison in many ways. There were some really terrible things that happened behind those walls, and as long as they stayed behind those walls, everyone thought we were the perfect family.

This house is full of secrets that no one ever saw or heard about.

17 years.

I hope the people who have lived there since have filled that house with enough laughter and joy to make up for the 17 years of on-again, off-again, terror that I experienced here.

Sunday Secret

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Plan B

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I don't have one this time.

This past month, all of my old-fashion, tube TVs were carted off to the dumpster, replaced by Mike's high tech, HDTV flat-screens.

The headboard I rescued from the dumpster and the IKEA dresser I so diligently constructed? Those are gone too, replaced by a beautiful bedroom suite Mike had delivered to the apartment on Friday.

Due to my fear of abandonment (I fundamentally believe I am unworthy of love - unlovable - and that once anyone finds out "who I really am," they will reject me) and my overwhelming need to control everything in my environment (a fear-based survival technique I learned from growing up in alcohol-fueled, dysfunctional chaos), I always have a Plan B.

When I was 10, I kept track of grocery prices - figuring out how I could feed myself on $5/week just in case my dad finally kicked me out of the house for being less than perfect. I saved a portion of my allowance until I had $20 saved up for just such an emergency.

When I was 15, I used that $20 - plus Christmas money - to purchase a Greyhound bus ticket to Spokane, and to support myself for a few days while I worked on figuring out where I was going to live after it became clear it was no longer safe to live in my parent's home.

Plan B is critical.

Plan B is a "Get Out Of Jail FREE" card.

Plan B is self-preservation.

I always have a Plan B.

I don't have one this time.

And I feel terrifyingly out of control.

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Sunday Secret

One of my earliest and most vivid memories as a child is laying in bed, hoping my father would make it home safely from the bar, but knowing that once he did all hell would break loose. It was bitter-sweet hearing his truck pull up in front of the house.