Sometimes it sits on a chair in the corner, like a joke from an old Technical Difficulties episode. Sometimes it trashes the room like a toddler throwing the mother of all tantrums. Sometimes it puts you in a chokehold, sometimes it’s humming a tune in the background, a droning noise that stays with you. Sometimes it sneaks up on you, sometimes it bursts through the door, pushes you off the couch and sits down, kicks its feet up and asks you what’s for dinner. Sometimes it cooperates, it often objects, “no” is its most common answer to any and all questions.
Sometimes it’s a bully, sometimes it acts like a victim. Sometimes it’s a small child, wading its way through an uncertain world. Sometimes it’s a raging monster, leaving no mistakes unpunished. Sometimes I know how to describe it, sometimes I truly can’t, I shut down and turn into a version of myself it has tortured for so long. Sometimes it’s a light quirky guest, sometimes it conquers the household. Light or heavy, the guest is as permanent as the thoughts are, so much so that it now has equity, and you couldn’t change the house without its permission.
The guest is as much a part of the house as any piece of furniture, any amenity, any storage space, any good or bad detail that makes this house a home. Love it or hate it, it has been the only constant. In a world that doesn’t care, it has often cared too much, almost to a fault. When you were down and out, it was still going at full speed.
It tried to become the foundations of that home. It tried to take over the reins, it sought after all the control it could get, but only when you let the house start to crumble. Its primary concern was saving you. It’s not evil, it’s not malicious, it’s broken and afraid just like you, and maybe a broken part of a broken you. As broken as it might be, it was the part of you that still had the strength to fight back. And so, the home lives to fight another day.