Bought myself a big, old house
with a myriad of rooms; needed
it to accommodate all those I
wanted to please – it’s what I do.
Learned it living in a house full
of children – adults that were
children – do it to compensate
for never having been a child.
Raised my own family, bent
on making sure they had
their space, their autonomy,
they’re gone now, still can’t
quit – spend my days cleaning
up in the aftermath: so much
dirt to launder; need it to be
pristine so they’ll come back.
Bought this old house partially
furnished – remnants of lives
before me – the crumbs of past
denial hardened now, panicked
to imagine what petulance has
been drawn to their neglect,
becoming obsessed about the
infestation, erasing the past
confine myself to the main floor,
ignore the filth on walls – crayon
figures pleading for help – until
daylight reveals truth, and leaves
me no options but to toil harder –
cannot let these patterns repeat,
need to save the innocents –
this work is never done – refuse
to see that I am not responsible
for it all – project rage onto my
spouse (latest in a string of
targets) for the sin of taking
pleasure, when I cannot relax,
(everyone knows how to unwind
but me, Super Woman) feel the
compulsion to flee, but disability
allots me no recourse – thank
goodness for this big old house –
places to hide, be forgotten –
if it wasn’t for the old crone
who haunts my dreams, drags
me out of my spinning misery
forces me to extend myself,
meets me at the edge of calm
where tranquil waters soothe
my inner churning, and where
kindred spirits come to play,
and connections are real, and
I can roam freely, unattached,
until illness brings me back –
reminds me of my limitations –
that I have been eternally lost
in a house with many rooms
aimlessly wandering in hopes
or renewal, lost for so long
that I’ve forgotten how to let
go, and only in my dreams do
I find the freedom to walk away
and reclaim the life that awaits
(Image: bigoldhouses.blogspot.com)
