The House I Built for Myself

1/28/15 - Leaving the house I built for myself

Being safe here isn’t enough. Not anymore. It’s time to leave.

Why do we build these kinds of houses and move into them? When did it become OK to trade the joy of living well for the illusion of safety our habits provide?  When did the road to better places become so arduous that we’d rather stay put than lace up our best hiking boots and venture outside?

Fear.

It all comes back to fear. And I’m still afraid, but now I’m more afraid of never leaving than I am of braving the unknown.

I feel compelled to imagine walking stoically through the rooms, running my hands along the holes in the walls and breathing in the stale scent of wasted years, to take it all in before leaving forever, but every time I sit down for the final tour of my proverbial house I find myself getting lost in the rooms rather than feeling the closure of saying goodbye and the thrill of walking out the front door.

I want to hear it crumble to the ground behind me as I leave or feel the flames on my back after I toss a match over my shoulder and set the place on fire. I want to see my naked self—because nothing from that house comes with me—as I journey into the unknown. To wince at the rugged ground beneath my feet and the branches brushing against my bare skin…and eventually bask in the light of a better life.

I won’t take the worn path I traveled to get here but break a new trail through unknown territory and see where I end up. The hardest part is taking that first step. I despise this place, but it’s taken care of me all these years. As much as I hate to admit it, this awful hovel has been my home.

Leaving the house, my fat, lazy sanctuary, means no more binging. It means being active when I’d rather sit on the couch and rot. It means missing my favorite shows. It means fewer cocktails, less sleep, and more vegetables. It means putting myself into uncomfortable situations and experiencing unfamiliar things. It means completely surrendering to the unknown.

There is no going back, even if I wanted to.

With nothing but smoking ashes on the ground, there’s nothing to go back to.

At the end of a dead end road, I built a house

I’ve remained within the walls to hide the truth of my habits from the world, even though their damage was obvious to anyone who bothered to look.

8/21/14

I traveled down a well-worn road that led to nowhere. At the end of this DEAD-END road I built a house. It wasn’t beautiful, not my style at all, but it was comfortable and afforded “easy” living.

But it wasn’t really easy. It was the illusion of ease. The truth is, I tortured myself during the construction of this house because I didn’t want to move in. I hammered the boards into place because hunkering down seemed simpler, safer than going back the treacherous way I came.

The house is small, just enough for me. The stairs are crooked, the walls warped, and the window panes streaked with dust and old paint. The wallpaper is yellowed and peeling, the floors stained beyond repair. There’s nothing beautiful about this house, but it’s surrounded me for years. I built it to escape the woods, escape my fear—a safe place where I could hide my ugliness within the walls. The walls are ugly for me.

Once the house was built, I made myself at home—always with the intention of leaving someday. Only the longer I stayed, the harder it was to leave. Even though everything around me was broken, and I no longer recognized my own body in the mirror, I was becoming part of the house. All the doors and windows starting sealing shut to keep me there forever. It was safe. Familiar. Part of me wondered if I should stay within those warm, filthy walls forever.

The other part screamed for release.

I’ve remained within the walls to hide the truth of my habits from the world, even though their damage was obvious to anyone who bothered to look. The house hid me from the world and hid the world from me. If you never try to change, you never fail. Instead you remain frozen in the place you’ve been, the place you know. The place that’s safe.

Even if it’s killing you.

The house is killing me. It has made me sick. I’m always out of breath, and my head is always in pain. How much longer do I have to live here?

How much longer do I have to destroy myself?

I’ve watched the menacing woods through a dirty pane of glass from a tattered couch with both fear and envy. I know if I braved the forest eventually I’d emerge in a bigger, better world. I’d be free. But I can’t see ten feet into the trees and I have no idea how long it will take to make it out. How far can my damaged heels carry me on uneven ground, and will I have enough puffs in my inhaler? How long will it take before I find comfort and security once I leave? 

In the house I’m miserable because there is nothing exciting and new, but it’s safe because there is nothing exciting and new.

As long as I’m in the house I don’t have to show the world all that I’m not.

…Or face all that I am.