i'm 6 years old.
i'm already being told that i'll need to grow out of this phase soon, kids my age are already losing their childhood toys in favor of more "grown up" hobbies.
i need to start selling my art work, a hobby isn't a hobby unless its bringing something in. i only knew how to draw fluffy cats and silly ponies.
i'm 10 years old.
i still cry when i can't find my favorite poodle. she's my rock. my unconditional support. when i don't feel like enough to anybody, she's still there for me with her matted grey fabric and scratched over eyes; battered from falling beneath the slats of my bed.
every night i line all of my friends up so they don't feel left out. i want everyone to feel included, even if i only cry over two of them.
i'm 13 years old.
we move for the first time, my childhood home was too dilapidated and gross for my parents to feel morally okay having us live in any more. we stopped making payments on the mortgage and let it slip into foreclosure, i think.
we only had a few trips to get everything out that we wanted. a lot of my friends got left behind in favor of things my younger siblings needed help with, i think about where they ended up a lot.
white walls replace the soft green and the smell of a flipped house replaces the dusty smell of our air conditioner, i bring a friend over to see our new house since we could never have company at the other one. he sits on my pokemon bed sheets and seems appalled that i haven't grown up yet.
cat posters on the walls, pokemon card shaped hearts and nothing but innocence desperate to be preserved fills the room. my nightly routine got cut short with the move, from countless to three. the poodle, the dog my father brought home for me when i was little, and a bat with posable wings; i never gave her a name, i didn't want to lose her, too.
i'm 15 years old.
i swap rooms with my sister; less of a swap i suppose as she moves up to the panhandle. she was the only one i could talk to about the condition of this house and how upsetting and overwhelmed it all is. this house has become worse than the first one and its only been a few years.
i miss my friends.
i spend every day cleaning top to bottom like trying to clean mud in a swap; cabinets are caving in and the floors are peeling upwards like the house is trying to swallow me whole.
dog bites and death make me crave that environment again, what i would give to go back to my childhood home; where a child didn't have to understand so much.
i still get mocked for the things in my room; the bright colorful lights and the stuffed animal net, the friends that line my bed and the names i've given them. i'm not losing any of them this time. i deserve to be happy, god dammit.
i'm 18 years old.
we move again. i would be dead right now if we stayed in that house any longer.
the trauma of scooping shovels of sin from the floor boards and wiping the walls down of tragedy until my hands and feet are raw from the chemicals is something i still feel in my bones when i see a single speck of dirt out of place or a fly where it shouldn't be.
this house is familiar, but not in the best way. i've stayed here before. i've worked here before.
i've also been scared here, yelled at here, and had a gun drawn on me here.
there's no flooring, it's all splintering subfloor. it hurts but this place is only temporary so don't worry about it. the floors absorb every incident and it doesn't matter how much i confess to them, they retain it.
they can come at any time, marching down that hill to come criticize us despite their own faults; faults worse than ours. they can decide i haven't done enough for them and evict us. they call me almost daily and demand i do things for their kids, i'm scared to say no. i hate this house but i hate being homeless even more.
i grow paranoid, checking blinds and facebook statuses before going outside to avoid confrontation. i grow weary about being watched, being heard, being seen. i still struggle with this.
at least i have my stuffed animals. they sit by my pillow every night, i find solace in turning towards the wall of my corner facing bed and pretending i'm somewhere happier. somewhere my animals can prosper. a lot of my friends are still in boxes, so this temporary move can go faster when we find a new house.
we lived here for two years.
i'm 20 years old, now.
i stand up for myself and don't accept critique.
i clean and scrub and plead and fight, i deserve to be happy.
i'm worth happiness.
i have a lot of friends now, they remind me of the ones left in that sad house so long ago. every night i make my bed and take roll call, making sure everyone is where they're supposed to be.
my childhood friends sit in a small box under my bed, i am so scared of them getting lost, getting damaged, getting destroyed. i feel guilty about it, but i know they're safe. they got me through 20 years of tear stains, snot and sweat, now they get to rest.
on particularly hard days i pull them out. my poodle fits in the palm of my hand, she has a weak neck and feels rough. i regret not taking better care of her, but i know without her i would've been lost.
i surround myself with bright colors, bright people, and the environment that makes me happy.
i'm worth happiness.
christmas lights year round and mismatched blankets that i like the colors of;
uncoordinated wall decor that holds a space in my heart larger than the volume on the wall;
minecraft figures and ponies, horses and pokemon;
whatever makes *me* happy.
i'm worth happiness.
i am enough.
