Home Is Where The Crazy Is

Why is it we get so attached to physical places? Houses being the perfect example. Yes, we fill them with memories—both good and bad—and we work hard on making that house a home. Is it the fear of one day losing our minds, so we hold on to bricks and beams in hopes that they will keep all of our memories from escaping. What if that home has cracks? In that case then how come sometimes it's only the good memories that are retained—and for others, the bad memories. I grew up in an “all American, white picket fence home”—or so it might of seemed, from the outside. From the inside, we were crazy.

I know, I know, you’re probably saying ‘who isn’t right?’ Or (my personal favorite) ‘well every family has their issues’. Sorry to break it to you, but you're wrong. You would have taken one look at us and said ‘yeah, batshit’.

SIDE NOTE: for those who say ‘well every family has their issues’—or something along those lines—to someone venting to you or trying to cope with their family’s crazy. Go fuck yourself, and this blog is not the place for you. Now back to my point.

My parents were the ‘tough love’ type of parents. When we misbehaved we were punished the way they were punished as kids; with the belt or wooden spoon—and thats not even the part that bothered me. What bothered me was the constant screaming and throwing shit at each other. The constant locking my sister and I out of the house so they could beat at each other (both physically and verbally) without watchful eyes and listening ears—although we still very well knew what was going on. The best part was how they dragged us into it by ‘accidentally’ falling asleep in our room when we were little, then as we got older they would just straight up ask who’s side we were on or ask us—as 12 years olds (if that)—for advice.

It actually makes me laugh out loud typing this. I mean seriously, full grown adults asking their pre-teens for advice on their love life? I’m sure you’re starting to imagine how my sister and I turned out. Now as “happily” divorced parents living in two separate homes, my sister and I move between the two constantly.

Sometimes we drive past our old home—you know the one we got locked out of a lot but still grew up in? I told my sister the last time we drove by that if I was ever given the opportunity, I would buy it and raise my own family in it; the right way. Do you know what she said? She looked at me and laughed. She ACTUALLY laughed in my face and asked “Why? Nothing good came out of that house anyway.” I knew what she meant, and I remembered the bad stuff too, but what I thought to myself was ‘well I thought we turned out pretty alright given the circumstances’. I didn’t actually reply to her though, just shrugged in half agreement.

So why is it we get so attached to physical places?