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That house!
That house was such a sad house. I wish I never knew it. In that house, there was never enough - it was a hard house with so much lack, aches and pain. There was never enough time. Never enough fun. Never enough happiness. Not enough money.
Because there was always never enough of anything, this house only knew how to speak one language. That language was anger. Anger from frustration. Anger from pain. Anger from poverty.
There was always enough anger to go around. More than enough anger. It was free and easy to give away. The house always had jars for storing anger and many times they were filled to the brim. The house has drums of outrage to go around and would do unthinkable damages.
The father was a steady supply. He had enough anger to go round. The mother, too, never ran out of jars. They exchanged jars, often. A day wouldn’t pass without father cursing mother and mother saying the most hurtful things in return. The house always spilled drums of angst with all it's ingredients.
The children soon had their own jars, and drums, eventually. They didn’t know what to do with these jars of anger. So they copied the parents and filled their jars up slowly.
They started breaking things during arguments. Saying only the most hurtful things to one another. It was like a contest. The children were getting really good at it. Better than father and mother, sadly.
As time flies, the children are grown now. Sometimes it’s difficult; there are triggers everywhere. They feel unsafe, and untrusting. They are exhausted too. Because they’re now struggling to give love to others from a place that was never cultivated. Love, was a language they never spoke or understood.
They are looking for in others, the love they did not get from home. And sometimes they stray towards people that carry the same bitter jars and they settle. It feels safer with broken people because that’s the language they grew to understand. They keep attracting their likes.
But, they're now in the outside world, learning and unlearning things differently; new things. They're making effort to do things differently from how they used to. From what they are used to. But It's really hard. The learning curve is stiff and the world doesn't give a fvck about anyone. Society makes nothing easy because you come from a disadvantage home. The world is an unkind place.
Anyway, they are better now. I’m proud of them. A few times, they still find small jars in their pockets. And they have to remind themselves to throw them away. They tell themselves they can do better now.
They now speak to themselves with calmness, love, respect and care. They see themselves as family and they understand family is the most important thing ever.
That house is changing. I am happy for them.
Dear JK.,
I am writing, again ✍️
© inked!
Because there was always never enough of anything, this house only knew how to speak one language. That language was anger. Anger from frustration. Anger from pain. Anger from poverty.
There was always enough anger to go around. More than enough anger. It was free and easy to give away. The house always had jars for storing anger and many times they were filled to the brim. The house has drums of outrage to go around and would do unthinkable damages.
The father was a steady supply. He had enough anger to go round. The mother, too, never ran out of jars. They exchanged jars, often. A day wouldn’t pass without father cursing mother and mother saying the most hurtful things in return. The house always spilled drums of angst with all it's ingredients.
The children soon had their own jars, and drums, eventually. They didn’t know what to do with these jars of anger. So they copied the parents and filled their jars up slowly.
They started breaking things during arguments. Saying only the most hurtful things to one another. It was like a contest. The children were getting really good at it. Better than father and mother, sadly.
As time flies, the children are grown now. Sometimes it’s difficult; there are triggers everywhere. They feel unsafe, and untrusting. They are exhausted too. Because they’re now struggling to give love to others from a place that was never cultivated. Love, was a language they never spoke or understood.
They are looking for in others, the love they did not get from home. And sometimes they stray towards people that carry the same bitter jars and they settle. It feels safer with broken people because that’s the language they grew to understand. They keep attracting their likes.
But, they're now in the outside world, learning and unlearning things differently; new things. They're making effort to do things differently from how they used to. From what they are used to. But It's really hard. The learning curve is stiff and the world doesn't give a fvck about anyone. Society makes nothing easy because you come from a disadvantage home. The world is an unkind place.
Anyway, they are better now. I’m proud of them. A few times, they still find small jars in their pockets. And they have to remind themselves to throw them away. They tell themselves they can do better now.
They now speak to themselves with calmness, love, respect and care. They see themselves as family and they understand family is the most important thing ever.
That house is changing. I am happy for them.
Dear JK.,
I am writing, again ✍️
© inked!
