Oak Ridge Street
This blog is about the concept of home. I’m reflecting on the different homes I’ve lived in as an adult, and what they meant to me. If I’m being fully transparent- and that’s the only way I know how to be- what I remember of this home is mainly the abusive marriage I endured and the horrific events that forever altered the course of my life in December of 2013. Writing is cathartic for me, and if you’ve followed me on social media for a while, you know I’ve shared the story several times. Many a post has been written, shared and subsequently deleted as I worked through various stages of healing. I used to feel like I had to explain everything to everyone in great detail. I wanted people to understand me, to know me, and I suppose, I wanted some sort of validation that I didn’t somehow deserve what I got. It’s been 12 years and while I still feel the effects of the trauma, (and always will) I am in a much different place.
I remember that I hated the pillars. I thought the exterior was dated and ugly- so much so that I didn’t even want to tour the house. But, tour it we did, and we sold our house in Salem to purchase this one in McMinnville. Wren was only 6 months old when we moved in. It was the house I became a stay-at-home mom in. Those early years are a blur of sleep deprivation, play groups, endless clean-up of toys, dishwasher loads of bottles and sippy cups, bedtime stories and lullabies. I raised my babies here until my oldest was 7. I’m sad that those memories are foggy, while the memory of the end of my marriage is emblazoned on my mind like a tattoo. What I wouldn’t give to trade the trauma for one more ordinary night of reading, rocking and singing with my littles.
This is the house that watched silently as my mother scrubbed my blood off the walls the day after I was attacked. It’s located in a lovely neighborhood. I remember choosing the neighborhood specifically because it was safe with such nice people living all around us. I remember running from the house, banging on doors and yelling for help. I saw my neighbors’ lights go on, but no one answered their doors.
This is the house in which I tried-and failed- to live alone with my kids. I had a broken nose, a concussion, a restraining order and a plan to become an independent woman. Instead, I trembled like a leaf and slept fitfully between night terrors and confused kids crying out all hours of the night. Jerry moved in within days, and we got a lot of judgment about that. (There was a lot of judgement about everything in those days.) I didn’t care because his arms were the only place I could physically stop shaking and rest. He made us feel safe again.
For me, the Oak Ridge house will always be the home of nightmares and pain. It is also the birthplace of our little family. It’s the house that first heard the word ‘JerDad’ spoken. It was witness to his ridiculous bedtime puppet shows, and his infinite patience as I healed. At Oak Ridge, I fell even more deeply in love with a person who does not shy away when things are messy and complex, but doubles down. I began to collect the fragments of myself and reconstruct my identity as a surviver.
