Doors, Windows, Bare Feet, and Why I Do What I Do
I’ve been asked quite a few times why I write about such personal things. For the most part, people in my life think it’s a good thing, thankfully. The answer is actually pretty simple, I write because a door was shut in the face of a scared and crying 10-year-old, and I titled this post “Doors, Windows, Bare Feet, and Why I Do What I Do”, for a very good reason. THAT was my moment and that is why I try to help anyone I can.
When I was 10, I moved to Florida,
and I lived in a home that became less than safe. My mother and father were divorced, and she remarried. Her husband was one of the most abusive, awful people I’d ever met, and he made life a living hell for everyone. He thought nothing of beating any of us, for no reason at all, whenever the urge struck him. As my mother’s husband proceeded to hurt her more and more, she told us that we were to run and get help from a *grown-up* if we were ever afraid. As it turned out, we were afraid a lot.
(Looking back, I realize now that she was afraid for her own life but was in no shape to leave.)
Enough is ENOUGH.
It was after dinner, after bath time, and it was dark. I couldn’t tell you what happened to make me decide to run, but I did. I waited until my stepfather was so deep into his rage that he wouldn’t notice me slipping out the front door, and I still remember what the grass on my bare feet felt like. How odd it was to be leaving my yard alone. I was in my nightgown and my hair was still wet from my bath, but off I went.
The neighbor’s living room light was on and I stood in the driveway, staring into the window for what seemed like forever. I heard my mom scream and I snapped back to reality. I ran across the driveway and up to the door, knocked, and waited. A woman answered, I remember her saying “Yes?”, and I told her that I needed help because my mom was getting hurt and asked if she could call the police.
She looked at me without saying a word and shut her door. Quietly. I stood there, looking at the little half-circle window at the top of her door, the light was still on. I remember that the light being on meant something to me. I’m not sure quite what it was, but it still sticks out to me. I walked back to the driveway and saw her through the living room window. She was sitting in her quiet, safe house and I was invisible and very much alone.
Now that I’m grown, I still don’t know why she made the choice that she did.
She could have had some type of mental disorder. Was she overwhelmed by her own life to the point that she could not spare a moment for a fearful child? Maybe she didn’t speak English well. It could have been that she didn’t want to get involved, many people didn’t at that time in my life. I didn’t know then, and I don’t entirely know now. I’m pretty sure that will always remain a bit of a mystery, but I owe that woman my gratitude because a big part of who I am is because she closed her front door.
I recall standing there in the dark, without even my clothes to help me feel secure. I knew I had to do something, keep trying. There were other homes, with lights on. So yes, I ran to another one and someone helped me. A very nice lady. She gave me a cookie while I waited for the police to come and help my mother. But she isn’t the reason I help others. She isn’t the reason I write. Her kindness was a comfort to me, so she IS the reason that I choose to be kind. I needed kindness desperately in that moment, a safe place to be. She gave that to me.
The woman who looked at me with a blank stare and simply shut the door is the one who gets the credit for my urge to put everything on paper. I told her that my mother was being beaten and that my little sisters were in the house, just like I was told to do. This wasn’t the response I was told I’d get. How could she do that? In any case, she is the reason I can’t stand the thought of someone standing there alone, looking into the window of a safe and normal life, and hurting.
I think that most of us understand that feeling to some extent, especially when it comes to those of us dealing with mental illness in one way or another. I always feel like a broken record when I say that I won’t be quiet, and I will talk until I’m unable to. Mental health has to be an *Okay thing* to talk about, and sadly, it’s not. Yes, I know, everyone says it is, and that’s great, but it’s not REALLY the case and we all know it.
We all feel it. Stigma still exists, no matter how many people speak out, no matter how many celebrities advocate, and no matter how many people die because they just couldn’t talk. We want it to be acceptable, but the harsh reality of the whole thing is, it just isn’t okay yet. It’s ugly, and no one wants to *actually* deal with the ugly. They close the door.
I absolutely give credit to those who DO take the time to learn, but we are not by any means close to where we need to be as far as ensuring that there are safe places to speak openly. And that is where I will always step in. I can’t speak for everyone, and I don’t know why people do the things they do. However, I know ME, and I will write about my journey with ZERO shame. It might not change much in the grand scheme of things, but it’s a start.
And just so we are all aware…
My light will always be on, and my door is always open. Maybe I won’t be able to fix anything, but I will always be available to listen, and that is a start. (And if a cookie would help, I’ve got you covered.)
Be kind, friends. Seek to understand. The world makes a lot more sense if you just take the extra time to REALLY listen to another human being.
