“As time goes by, it seems to be: You could have been a better friend to me. Mama, I’m coming home. You told me lies, you made me cry. But I can’t stand to say goodbye. Mama, I’m coming home.” ~Ozzy Osbourne
Home.
Home is one of those emotionally charged words that permeate our language. Whenever you hear the word “home”, your thoughts drift back to your own home. Sometimes you think about the home that you grew up in – the home of your parents. Other times, you think about the home you have made for yourself; either alone, or with your spouse, and those whom you share your home with now. Whenever you think of “home”, you automatically think about what home means to you, and the thought conjures whatever emotions you have about that place that you call “home”.
If “home” is a place of happiness for you, then you are comforted by the word. When you think of “home”, your emotions swell within you, bringing all the love, joy, and happiness that you experienced while in your home. Thoughts of home bring you feelings of love, of acceptance, of belonging. Home is where the heart is. Home is where you are free to let down your guard, and to be yourself with minimal fear of rejection or judgment. Home is a place of love and healing. When the world is cruel, or when life has seemingly turned against you, then you instinctively go home. You retreat to your place of safety and comfort to lick your wounds and take the time to heal.
But what if home is where the trouble is? What if home doesn’t represent a safe harbor for you, but rather a prison of pain, shame, and suffering? What if “home” to you means beatings, feelings of fear and loneliness, or shame and sorrow? If you have been abused, or are currently being abused, then home is not a safe place for you. Even the word itself can cause great pain and suffering within your heart, body, and soul.
I am fortunate. I’ve never lived in an abusive home, nor experienced abuse firsthand. I don’t know what it’s like to be betrayed like that, by someone who is supposed to love and protect you. I don’t know what that feels like, because it has never happened to me.
However, I know too many people that have experienced it. I’ve heard too many stories of what happened at “home” from people close to me. I’ve heard too many stories of rape. Too many stories of incest. Too many stories of fistfights, of broken noses, of broken fingers, of broken ribs. I know too many women who know how to cover bruises with make-up. I’ve seen too many scars, both physical and mental. I do the only things I can do. I sit, and I listen. I offer a shoulder when it is needed, or asked for. I offer sympathy, and empathy. I wipe tears and listen to rage. I try to be the best friend that I can be. I’m not perfect, not by a long shot, but I do my best to be loving and supportive.
I wish I could call these men out publicly, to shame them and humiliate them the way they did to the people in their care. I wish I could personally throttle the living shit out of them. I wish I could give them a dose of their own medicine. Repeatedly.
I know…that’s not really the answer. Violence only begets more violence, right? I know it’s not the enlightened thing to do. I know it wouldn’t really solve anything. Most importantly, I know that it wouldn’t erase the pain and suffering that has already been done. It wouldn’t fix the broken hearts and shattered dreams. In fact, it’d probably only make things worse. So, I hold my anger in check, because my anger isn’t what my friends need to see or hear. They’ve had enough anger in their lives. I don’t want to add to it.
Sometimes (like as I’m writing this, for example), I wish I could tell you the stories that I have heard. I wish I could share the pain, the shame, and the suffering that has been shared with me. I wish I could show you just how evil human beings can be. I wish I could shine a light on that darkness, in an effort to wipe it off the planet for good.
But I can’t do that, either. I can’t tell the stories, because they aren’t mine to tell. Those were secrets entrusted to me, and so I cannot be the one who sheds light on them. For all of my faults, betraying trust is not one of them. So the secrets in my care remain, always and forever, in my care. I cannot share the things that are not mine to share, I cannot tell the secrets that are not mine to tell.
However, there is one thing that I can do. I can point you to a place where many brave women have come forward to share their stories. If you have been abused, or are still being abused, then I encourage you to share your story there. I can tell you that you are not alone, that women everywhere are going through the same things. I can tell you that there is an entire community of women who love and support each other, and will love and support you, too. Lastly, I can point you to some good resources.
If you haven’t found it yet, then someday, I pray that you will find a safe place, where you can find love and comfort. A place where you can find peace and healing. A place to call “home” that makes you feel the way “home” should feel.
You’re not alone.
Love always,
Jay