Every room felt like a different place in time. Its eerie and beautifully … home to me..? People talk about trauma like it's a clean line—good or bad, safe or terrifying. But trauma bonds are weird. They’re demanding. And being the eldest child comes with a certain self-appointed pressure, a weight you strap onto your own shoulders before you're even old enough to understand what you're carrying. Not all of those rooms were accumulated by negative emotions. Some of them were beautiful. I actually long for them. The truth is, my mom and dad did everything they could to help me. We all are human beings experiencing life for the very first time together. They did everything they could to be the best people that they could. They had pure hearts, and they loved me. But they’re human beings, and that house was full of chaos. Both things can be true at the exact same time. Not one person is all good nor all bad—it’s so much more gray than that. I remember things from that house I’m sure they don’t know I remember. And I’ve forgotten things I’m sure they worry I do. That house wasn't just wood, nails, and a brick wall between the kitchen and the living room. It was a living, breathing timeline, and every corner of it has been calling to me ever since.
