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Your Home Wasn't Safe for Me, So I Built My Own

Your Home Wasn't Safe for Me, So I Built My Own

By: Amanda Rebello

It’s raining. Again. For the third day in a row. I don’t mind it though. I’ve always liked the rain. It reminds me of my brother and of when home was a better place. Or I guess, of a time when I didn’t know that my home was broken. There were always harsh words and coffee mugs flying in that house. Brown smears of steaming liquid on hardwood and I didn’t know it wasn’t normal.

The good times smell a little of beer. I didn’t know at the time how saturated they were in the stuff, but looking back I can remember the smell of it on your breath and the way you’d make me cry if I didn’t catch the slurring before it was too late to say goodnight. We’d watch the storms roll in though, from on top that hill. That’s what the rain reminds me of. Those late nights spent on the porch with the water pouring off the roof and splashing our feet. The thunder and the roar of the tin roof wrapped us in a cocoon. It lulled a false sense of security, tranquil in it’s chaos. But in hind sight I remember too, the nights where I was too busy enjoying myself to count the cans as they piled up. The cruel words that came with the seventh or eighth have faded through the years, but the damage they did is something I still wrestle with.

I didn’t learn until I had left that home, and the one after it, that it was dysfunctional. I didn’t know until after years of being away from that place that I had a flawed home life. I know now though your home wasn’t and will never be safe for me, so I built my own. We have our bad days here. Days where I sleep too much and days where the dishes just don’t get done, but for the most part it’s a happy home. There’s a lot of laughter, and a lot of love. I’m whole here. There’s no one with a sharp stick of bitterness poking holes in me any more. I’m safe here, the way you should be safe at home.