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“We’re staying here at the shelter for three days, right?”
“In the very least” I replied with unintended sarcasm in my voice. “Three days at the very least.” When the seventh day rolled around, and nothing seemed different, I began to feel exasperated, depressed and hopeless. I am thankful for this place. It is a needed resource and truly a blessing to many, including us. But, the truth is, I do not enjoy being here and cannot wait to leave. I feel as though I’m in a fishbowl. Workers are everywhere during the daytime hours, and at least one person is on shift in the evening. There are others staying on here, also having fled an abusive situation. No true privacy. No freedom. The children and I cannot leave and go for walks or even play in the play yard without fear. Taking out the trash is a job that is dreaded task. The dumpster is at least forty feet from the door. The space you must cross through is wide and open. The road all too close. He’s out there, and he’s after us. I feel like a small creature who has a ferocious animal on my tail. It dawned on me, yesterday, that I am homeless. Homeless! Words cannot tell precisely what that realization does to me. Forms arrived yesterday for legal help. Some also arrived for housing placement. But everything moves slowly here. Some times it feels as though we’ll be here forever. I am a shy person by nature. My world is most comfortable when I’m alone or in a very small group. Here, however, I must constantly live in a widely social manner. The ladies and I cook together, share together, clean together, and generally live together. We all notice one another’s parenting, habits, challenges, personalities, faults and difficulties. Another will ask that the sweeping get done before bed, not realizing that the broom broke after cleaning up following the last meal. One stands behind us as we eat at the table commenting to the children on how nice their appetite is or how well behaved they’re being. Still another will tell me ten minutes on the phone is plenty, and please ask for the phone card if there is a long distance phonecall to be made. It is almost like being a child all over again, in some ways! I am no longer the “keeper” of a home. I miss things the way they were, occasionally. I miss my bed, my pillows, my surroundings, my books and other things. I miss being able to lock the bathroom door after the children are safely tucked in bed to soak in a bubble bath for an hour or so. I miss my garden and my flowers and the tiny little pepper plants that were looking so fine. I miss our dog and three cats… I miss the walks the older children and I would take each night before retiring. I miss our chats, our togetherness and our laughs and giggles. I miss the children’s home school materials and noting their advancements in my record book. But I do not miss the tension that permeated the entire home. I do not miss seeing the children all run wildly in differing directions, announcing fearfully, “He’s home!” I do not miss my husband’s angry, contemptuous glares and my seeming inability to meet his unrealistic expectations. I do not miss the threats, the coercion and the control. I do not miss getting in trouble for having a voice, preference or opinion that differed from my husband’s. I do not miss the fear that engulfed me when he was angry. I do not miss the horrid words and expressions he used when referring and relating to the oldest three children. I do not miss hearing his nasty, hateful opinions of me. I do not miss “walking on eggshells”, trying desperately to “do everything right” as I “love my enemy”. I do not miss the extreme discipline the little ones experienced, or the neglect of our family’s emotional and physical needs. I do not miss the “crazy making” which constantly occurred. There is nothing more horrendous than being told something didn’t happen that certainly did. I literally began to doubt my sanity. We have three rooms of our own here. There are eight beds for us. We have food and shelter, peace and safety. Everyone is supportive, loving, kind and encouraging. When I was upset the other day and feeling mournful, one of the ladies here insisted I lie down and put my feet up. She scolded me for struggling against her insistence and covered me with a blanket and set a cup of cold water and a box of tissues within reach. Such treatment was excruciatingly hard for me to accept. Love. I am used to caring for others, not the other way around. Having someone else tend to my emotional needs was uncomfortable to say the least. I honestly have grown to believe I do not deserve it. |
Thoughts
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