Dam

Mine broke this week. My emotional dam. On Monday. It could have been my disturbing dream on Sunday night, which has been the cause of my reliance on sleeping pills ever since. Nevertheless, it was inevitable. Emotions can only be suppressed for so long, and that  dam of suppression can be an absolute BEAST when  it erupts. So it was with me on August 2. Heavy sobs, gasping for air, puffy eyes, and ending with a massive headache.

This is my childhood home, although it no longer looks quite like this. As a matter of fact, I wanted so desperately to post the picture that my childhood friend, Naomi, drew from her bedroom window  across the street years ago, when the house was still its original blue color.

The past few months have been quite difficult, and it has been hard to get most people to  truly understand. Of course I’m sentimental; most people would be. I used to follow a character on “General Hospital” on Twitter (don’t judge me ☺), who reminded me that I’m not alone. In April she tweeted, “Just returned from a wonderful weekend at home in Okc…our house is under contract…kind of sad but my parents are happy” [link]. I can relate…partially. At least in my case, family is living there. I’m more than thrilled about that, so it’s not being invaded by strangers. But it’s still not quite the same.


When Mom first told me she was seriously thinking about moving, I fought it tooth and nail (internally). I refused to think about it. I didn’t want to talk about it. Period. Then she found the house. Then she closed. Then she called the phone company to have her phone number transferred. Couldn’t do it.

In my mind, that phone number and that house were a package deal. Period.

This is probably how it will always be in my mind. The very next morning, I called and got the “this line has been disconnected” message, and my heart sunk. How could it just be that easy to erase our number? MY number. It’s just gone? Like that? I cried. During the few months of heavy renovations, Mom relied solely on her cell phone, and I can’t begin to count the number of times I have dialed the old home phone number in the past few months. I still do. It’s instinctual. I have yet to delete it from my BlackBerry. I probably never will.


On Good Friday, Rachael and Patrick were in town to prepare their house to be put on the market. When I walked in that night, the emptiness was overwhelming. It probably wouldn’t have affected me had I not known and experienced it as their home within the last couple of years. That’s the feeling I experienced every time I went to Mom’s house since March. Seeing things in boxes, seeing myself being deleted from my bedroom (no, I still hadn’t moved all of my stuff out since I moved out), seeing bare walls that once held our photos.


I think it’s understandable why I would be sentimental, but it’s deeper than that. This house has been my refuge, in ways that I can’t quite put into words without offending some people. I have mentioned, in past posts, that I worked very hard on forgiving someone who caused a lot of pain in the past. Returning to this home was always a welcome sight and an indescribably warm feeling. Perhaps that will shed some light on why this has been so difficult. This house is so much more than just the place I grew up.

It’s been an adjustment, and anyone who knows me knows I am no fan of change. I’ve definitely shed lots of tears in the last few months, but during the past week or so, I’ve been too busy and exhausted to cry. Business, exhaustion, and suppression were all smothering my emotions, and the dam finally broke. I think I’m still recovering from that flood. Being emotionally drained is exhausting.

But to new beginnings, right?

I’ve added more pictures to the “Mom Moving” album. It’s therapeutic.