To Live in My Own House
Forgiveness Springs - Part 1

“It sounds like you didn’t get to live in your own house.”

That’s what the $110 per hour therapist told me on my second visit, over 20 years ago, in Chattanooga, Tennessee.

We were discussing a dream I had had after my first therapy visit. I won’t describe it in detail here, but basically it involved a double bed in a drainage ditch that sat where our front yard met the street when I was a boy in Chattanooga (that was the bedroom for my brother and I in the dream). A large pet dog slept beside the bed. The house was up the hill a bit from the bed. And one night the woman in the house was raped, then cut with a knife on her throat where her voice box was, so she could not speak of the terror she had experienced. We had a “shoot-out” with the intruder outside the house, but he escaped.

I could not make heads or tails of the dream until the therapist said the line about “not living in” my “own house.” Then it all came together in my mind.

I loved my parents. They were good people. I miss them now, and think of them each and every day.

But something happened back there that set a course for my life. And it was not good. Some abuse. Some muzzling of emotion. Some terror. It happened on “their watch” (so to speak).

And I am left with a choice. As are you, perhaps.


Or not.


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