from the pages in a home going, going, gone …

I wish to write what living in this house has meant to me.

It’s meant relief from and end to brutal batterings by women. The ceasing of others’ hurtful thoughtless comments and simmering toxic silences.

Living here has meant having a place to come where I’m safe from harm and violence in the home, which is more damaging in its rawness and intimacy than the violence and harm inflicted by the outside world.

Living here has meant having a place that I look forward to … and more importantly know that I CAN return to any time of day or night.

Living here has meant having a place to come to rest. Rest. Breathe. And be.

None of those existed in my former residences; it wasn’t until early November, four months after arriving in Denver, did I arrive into a place safe, stable, secure and free of harm and dangers.

Now it, too, is being taken, ripped from my hands after 17 days.

I’ve so much more to write yet I’m dammed by shock and by anger.

It is because I love being here, in this house, this neighborhood, this location and at this window that blesses me each day with the view of the magnificent Rockies and splendid Colorado sky that I choke on grief and tears welled up inside.

It is because I envisioned and anticipated being here for six months (perhaps longer, depending) that I began to relax and breathe like the traveler, wearied and broken an an arduous severe journey.

“Ahhhhhh, rest!” he exclaims upon entering the inn, “a hot meal and hotter bath! And some sleep and I shall be on my way again … not today, neither tomorrow but someday down the road.”

For him, a bead and bath and meal are bliss.

Daniel, when I moved in, was reluctant to rent me the room because I could not assure a 6-month commitment that was his top priority and condition.

I truthfully told him that in the gross and constant upheaval that was my life, I couldn’t commit beyond a day or a week. All was moment to moment. I assured him, however, that I WANTED to remain for six months and that I wanted and craved above all normalcy. To live a normal life. To go to work. Come home. Go out. Meet people. The normal stuff taken for granted.

He consented to let the room. IT wasn’t three weeks later that he who had made the big deal about a six-month commitment told me to move to accommodate a brother in need.

Daniel instructed me to move by a text message.

He has broken his word and his convenant with God. (He is, you see, a devout and frequent churchgoer.) Trouble will befall him.

I absorb the consequences of his actions. It is MY life disrupted and tossed into upheaval by his broken word.

Is it any wonder, any wonder at all, that I dream of a home in seclusion, surrounded by my (carefully chosen) tribe and animals and the rest of the world and its people far far away?

I do dream of escape — nee, freedom — from most people of this world, including those who would and do disregard, disrespect, toss away and cast aside my life for their gains and selfishness.

Perhaps that’s the underlying purpose for these rotten living situations and revolving door residences — to cast off the slough of selfish ones so that I might advance into a home, a safe haven, a place for and of me. A place where NO ONE will throw me out ever again.

I wonder. I hope. I wish. I desire.

I am done and I am moving (ahgain) in a week). God bless me as I go.

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