I did not realize the effect our old house had on my life until I
returned the last time for some final cleaning.
When I turned onto the street that led to the neighborhood, I felt this
hole forming in my stomach and hot saliva pooling in the back of my throat like
my body was forcing down something distasteful.
As I pulled up to the gates, I could feel my hands sweating as I gripped
the steering wheel. The car rounded the
first corner, then the second, and come to a stop in front of the house. Every
atom in my body was humming and telling me to turn back. It was as if I sat in front of a grizzly haunted
house from a horror movie with an overly dramatic name like “The Blackened”
instead of a gray-blue townhouse. My fingers
hesitated at the ignition key, still undecided if they wanted to obey my
commands to turn off the car. I forced
them, and with a quick turn, the car was silent.
We moved into the townhouse when my son was three weeks old, and
trapped within those walls, I faced my twenty-two month battle with severe
postpartum depression. Because the house
and depression entered my life at the same time, the walls became stained and scared
from the dark experience that took place there, and when I pulled up for last
time, it all came flooding back. I
thought I hated that house for lack of closets, the tiny kitchen, or the dysfunctional
HOA. However, the stark contrast I felt
between our new home, which is filled with peace, and this old building,
tainted by hate, acted as a potent reminder that every strand of carpet, every
squeak in the floor, and every window blind carried with it memories of pain.
This week I wrote about my postpartum depression for my creative
writing class. During this process, I
reviewed old blog and journal entries so the experience would be fresh in my
mind. This entry particularly stood out
because I had forgotten that it was last spring that brought the first buds of
hope back into my life. Now, one year
later, I walk through my yard and observe the tiny, green leaves poking out the
ground that will soon sprout into daffodils.
I find green and purple mint leaves hiding under dead winter foliage. I see the moss-covered willow branches
budding around the teal tire swing that Annie sways in every afternoon. I find so much joy in it all and an immense amount
of gratitude to be in this place. I
think this time every year I will remember the hell that held me captive and
the heavenly freedom I feel now and be grateful that every winter has a spring.
