Anchored

I have lived in the same town for twenty-one, nearly twenty-two, years. I was born and raised in this small town, and it is from here that I intend to leave when I complete my schooling. You see, most people that live in my town never leave. It is like they are anchored here. Whether due to familial commitments, employment, or some other reason, people don’t leave. But for me, I intend on getting out of this small town as soon as possible. Let me explain why.

I grew up in an isolated area of my hometown. I lived on a street that didn’t have any street lights or sidewalks. There was a canal at the end of the street that I used to “fish” from. Or more accurately, capture the small minnows that swam in the water and keep them as pets until they died. Which always devastated me. It was on this street where I learned how to ride a bike without training wheels, where I hunted for trolls and Bigfoot with the neighborhood kids, and ultimately where my childhood fantasies were destroyed.

There were about eight houses total in the neighborhood, and all of the neighbors knew each other. This started out great because everyone looked out for one another. Or, at least, that is what was supposed to happen. My next-door neighbor (I’ll call him Mark) was a police officer and was also enlisted in the Air Force, working on the base that was close to where I lived. Nonetheless, he was the one neighbor that everyone automatically trusted. I mean, he was a cop and a member of the military. Why shouldn’t people have trusted him?

It was on this street where I learned how to ride a bike without training wheels, where I hunted for trolls and Bigfoot with the neighborhood kids, and ultimately where my childhood fantasies were destroyed.

During the time that I lived in my neighborhood, there were quite a few children. But, Mark’s daughter (I’ll call her Savannah) and I were the only two young girls in the neighborhood. Savannah lived in another state with her mom, but she would come for scheduled visitations with Mark. It was during these visitations that Savannah and I became friends. Her house became like a sanctuary to me. My life at home was chaos with my alcoholic father, my mother working nights, and talk of divorce. Going over to Savannah’s house was a way for me to escape from my own home that had become more like a prison at that time. This, however, was also how Mark lured me into his house.

I went over to Mark’s house one day to see if Savannah was there, and he told me that she was. I didn’t think anything of it because he had never lied to me before. He was a trusted adult in my life at that point. When I went inside, however, everything changed. It seemed as if a switch had flipped, and Mark suddenly became angry and violent. This was the first time that Mark molested me. I was nine years old. I’m not going to go into any more details than that about what happened, as it isn’t pertinent to this post. Rather, I wanted to explain some of the backstory as to the importance of Mark’s house. Instead of being a sanctuary, Mark’s house became my own personal hell. Within the walls of Mark’s house, what was left of my childhood and my childish innocence was stolen.

Once I moved into a new house, away from Mark’s, I decided that I would never go back to that street again. And I didn’t. Until a couple of months ago. Mark moved away a little over a year ago, so I knew that I didn’t run the risk of seeing him if I were to go back to that lonely street. I had been having some nightmares about Mark’s house and everything that happened within those walls, so I knew that I needed to go back. I needed to turn the house into a pile of scrap wood in my mind. For so long, I had let that house control where I went and how I lived my life. So, with my dog in the passenger seat, I set off to the street where so many of my childhood memories took place.

I needed to turn the house into a pile of scrap wood in my mind. For so long, I had let that house control where I went and how I lived my life.

The drive from the house I live in now to Mark’s house should have taken me ten minutes. I made the drive in about 30. I definitely drove past the street a couple of times before actually turning on to it. Finally, I did turn onto the street, and I parked in the driveway of what used to be Mark’s house. The outside of the house was largely unchanged. It was still the pale brown that I remembered, with its cherry red door. There was even a trailer parked in the same place that Mark had parked his.

I stared at that house for a long time. I don’t remember exactly how long I was there. I let the memories of that house, both the good and the bad, flow through my mind. I still have good memories of Mark’s house, and while they are tainted with bad memories, I try to allow myself to remember those good times as well.

While I know that Mark’s house still haunts me, it has less of a hold on me now that I have revisited it. The anchor that was holding me down has lifted just a little bit, and I don’t feel as afraid of that house as I used to. At some point, I may try to contact the new owners to walk through the house, but that is not something that I am ready for yet. For now, I’m going to work on conquering my fears. Little by little, I am making steps toward my future. A future in which I will leave this town behind and start a life free from the memories that anchor me to this town. A future where I can move forward with what I have experienced in life and use my experiences to help empower other survivors, or other people in general. This house, made of wood, cement, nails, and screws, no longer has control over how I live my life. I took my power back the day I turned Mark’s house into a pile of scraps.