What’s a house got to do with it?

Most of us remember the nuances of the houses we grew up in. We know the nooks and crannies, and the sounds the house makes when it settles and groans. We know the clicking noise of the furnace kicking in, the whistling sound of the wind blowing through the windows, and how the gate slams as someone makes their way to the door. We can trust our way in the dark during power outages or to sneak food from the refrigerator at midnight because we know where the furniture is and where the stairs begin and end.

I lived in three different houses growing up, the first two in Michigan and the third in Minnesota. Each move brought more carpeting.  I lost the early warning system that wooden floors and creaky steps gave me as the carpet grew wall-to-wall.

The first nine years of my life I lived in Grant. I remember everything about that house. I could draw it in great detail; actually, I could draw all three houses in great detail. I liked this house the best, not only because the floors and stairs were wooden and creaky, but because I shared it with all my siblings at the same time. My parent’s attention was divided between the four of us children. When I was nine and we moved to the suburbs, the attention shifted away from my siblings and the spotlight fell directly on me.

Inside that first house, my bedroom was my refuge because of the windows. My sister and I had beds beneath the two windows looking out towards the front of the house. There was another window with a window-seat on the side of the room that faced the neighbor’s house. During the day, I would sit on the window-seat and read. Most nights as I lay in bed, I would turn my head towards that same window and imagine fire consuming the side of the neighbor’s house; intense bright orange flames licking high into the air. I was young but I was already finding ways to externalize the pain that was coursing through my body.

The living room was large and filled with gray furniture covered in thick plastic that you stuck to in the summer and froze on in the winter. The dining room had a fireplace along one wall, double glass doors leading to a porch, and a swinging door leading into the kitchen. That swinging door would make an earsplitting banging sound when an angry parent would smack it open when coming into or going out of the dining room. The kitchen had ugly dark green linoleum and two steps leading from it that either led you outside or if you turned right, led you down a steep set of stairs into the basement. The basement had a large room where the boys would use their wood burning sets and a corner where my father had his easel set up, a place where he would draw charcoal portraits of the family and neighbors.

Aside from the linoleum in the kitchen and the concrete of the basement, the rest of the house had hardwood floors and stairs. A few area rugs covered the center of the rooms but they did nothing to mask the sound of people walking or climbing the stairs.

The backyard seemed huge to me as a little girl.  We had a few apple trees, cattails growing behind the garage, and a round swimming pool. I remember the wild raspberries that grew against the chain link fence.

I played alone in that backyard for long periods of time. My refuge was behind the garage in a corner along the neighbor’s fence. There I stayed hidden, out of sight from all the windows on the back of the house and the porch. Standing behind the garage, hearing my heart beat like a hummingbird, I petted the cattails that grew by the fence. I picked the tiny purple violets to make bouquets that I would grip as tightly if they were my last friends in the world. I didn’t care that they wilted with the heat of my hands; I just wanted to look at the delicate petals and drink in their color. It was a solitary existence but solitary was far better than any kind of attention that I received inside of that house.

The energy inside our house was super-charged. Tension crackled in the air like electricity, no matter how many of us were inside. If there wasn’t some kind of abuse going on, there was a silence that hung so thick and heavy that I would find myself looking down at the floor, or fidgeting, not knowing what to do with your hands. Opera or classical music sometimes blared from the stereo, a macabre contrast to the silence. At other times the volume of the music would alert us to what was going to happen next; the rising crescendo seemed to egg my parents on and steel us for explosive abuse.

excerpt from chapter 1, Untangled, A Story of Resilience, Courage, and Triumph



Thank you for reading Untangled, A Story of Resilience, Courage, and Triumph





22 thoughts on “What’s a house got to do with it?

  1. Thank You so much. I appreciate that you caught that in my writing. Those are the things I tried to write about throughout the whole book. Whether it was the color of my shirt, or a song, or having a moment of fun in the sea. Have a wonderful day! Alexis


  2. Beautiful. While only having a fleeting beauty, it’s a marvel that your refuge was filled with such delicacy – in light of the harshness of elsewhere. I think children (such as ourselves) appreciate things during that time that others don’t. And while I think that’s good, I also think it’s sad. It’s frustrating to be struck with beauty and sad at the same time. But your telling of your hiding place – is beautiful. THank you.

    Liked by 1 person

  3. My pleasure 🙂
    That’s good to hear – it sounds like you’re really connecting with yourself. 🙂
    I’ve done and still do work on myself to ultimately have a better life. Yes, Hope is the keyword here; for each and every day. My spirituality helps me too.
    All the best. xox

    Liked by 1 person

  4. Thank You, for your comment! I really apprecaite it and it landed deep in my heart. 🙂 My book will be out a year this August. I have received so many books since publishing Untangled. I’ve come a long, long way on my healing journey and since the book came out to such a vast audience have become passionate about keeping the conversation started and open about living with hope and resilience in the face of PTSD. So, I am much happier with a positive future outlook. 🙂 Alexis

    Liked by 1 person

  5. Thank You for your feedback Caroline. I’m so glad you shared this with me. It’s so strange on how we remember the houses, yet, I can see that the nuances of them stay with long into adulthood. Im SOO glad you were able to find some refuge in boarding school, but also so sad, that you had to find refuge in boarding school. You have really conquered your past. Always in awe of your comments. Have a wonderful weekend! Alexis


  6. Great post. The houses I lived in were also connected to my childhood trauma. My parents first house was in a cul de sac and all the children would play on the street. I loved it there. The next house was much larger and grander and I was sexually abused there. The third house I developed PTSD because of my mother’s threats to me after my father left. I would check under the bed, in the wardrobe, in the shower room for serial killers, find hiding places from the serial killers and practise my escape routes. I was terrified in that house and my boarding school was a refuge that saved me from the nightmares of home.

    Liked by 1 person

  7. Thank you so much for your feedback. I really appreciate it! I wanted to write in a way thats relateable for everyone, even though its a tough read at times. I tried to stay away from specifics and instead described how things felt. Since feelings are universal. 💜

    Liked by 1 person

  8. dear Alexis, how much the heart wants to remember that the mind will allow and i am so touched by the description and the words that pull at my heart and i see the little girl lying on the bed and anticipating the worst and how i wish i could put my arms around that little body and hug all the badness away…..

    Liked by 2 people

  9. I’d like to say I can imagine how hard it must be but I don’t think I could possibly imagine what you have been through. You’re incredibly brave… Well done for turning this round into something inspiring to others who may be suffering.. x

    Liked by 1 person

  10. Thank You, I really appreciate your feedback. I always think it’s amazing the little details that stick in our senses. Sometimes, the color, or smell of something is much more vivid then the actual event. Our brains are amazing to me.

    Liked by 1 person

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