Painting the Room Pink

—Painting my heart black

It was the first time my heart had been shattered, broken into a million pieces. Hitting the floor one by one and piece by piece - Photo by Turgay Kuca from Pexels

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Ever since I can remember, I’ve wanted to escape my childhood home. It was like a prison from which there was no escape—a fortress meant to keep me locked away. The walls reeked of trauma, floors splattered with shame, and weeds of poverty, neglect, and destitution grew in our backyard. I’d hide this part of me from others, from schoolmates and friends. I was ashamed of where I lived, where I came from, and my barely functional family structure.

At that time, much of who I thought I was was based on what my eyes could see, but mostly, it was based on what we did not have.

Despite the sunny days, we’d always manage to crawl right back into the ditch we came out of, and I hated every last bit of it. The empty plates and stomachs, right down to the broken window in the front of our house facing the world for all to see. I’d often dreamt of escaping it; I thought when I became an adult, I’d be free, vindicated from this jail sentence to live life on my terms and by my rules.

But fate had other plans for me, like failing at every possible dream I had and being thrown right smack in the middle of the exact same dysfunctional dynamics as were present in my childhood. A lifelong Houdini act that had gone horribly wrong.