House of Many Homes
Returning from incarceration
I’m not saying the house was anything like the Navidson Record. It wasn’t that complex. I am saying it had a role to play. It was the house that made her sick. It was in the walls. Sometimes I look back on those days and think of all I could have done to change paths but that’s like looking back, into the night, seeing two sets of headlights. Understanding you have options is a form of privilege. I was never good at it.
It began benignly. We stayed home because it was convenient. After all a house is where you live. It’s just not where you have to stay. Maybe we forgot that. Regardless, we were comfortable there. I was comfortable there. For a mix of reasons I suppose. I was fresh out prison and had more comfort at home than I had in prison. I had nowhere to go and no good friends. Before prison I spent my time in taverns and pubs. After prison I no longer drank so there was no reason to leave the house. On top of that was social anxiety in white-out conditions that often left me weeping. I couldn’t take the people. I get it now. How it sounds like I was the house.
From the record:
“Things were different after prison.”
“Why is that?”
“I just…sheesh” — leveled my gaze — “somehow I didn’t think it would be this hard to…”
