Weeping Walls

Appearing quaint and humble from this angle, like a master of disguise it gives away very little, catching intrigue from those who pass by.

Nestled in remote yet dense woodland it is, regardless of the season, consistently brushed with the gentle caress of late autumn. 

Oranges, gold’s, reds and auburn mingle and entwine like a song around this cottage.

Mismatching bricks create a perfect, imperfect pattern.  It was built years ago, with careful attention, love and dedicated hands.

The small white front door sits almost awkwardly to the left and through the wood framed windows you can make out the shape of pottery and plants, furnishing the window sills.

Whoever lives here affectionately nurtures and watches things grow.

 Inside the cottage strange and interesting items must adorn the shelves and cupboards. Well read books, much loved trinkets, mismatching crockery. An eccentric mix.  The story of some bodies life.

To step inside and explore, would surely be a treat.

Let us walk up the twisted garden path, through the rambling overgrowth and take a closer look.

The door is ajar!

Slight bow of the head, a step forward and we’re inside, blinking into a warm, mellow light, a contrast from the dappled and hazy sunshine left behind us.

Allowing your eyes to slowly adjust, a hallway stretches out in front, surprisingly long and narrow.

Framed pictures grace the uneven, yet skillfully plastered walls creating an eclectic mix of colours and sizes, all hung by a hand that does not care for strict organization and straight lines.

Dark wood doors lead off in each direction.  A stairway curving up and around to the right can be seen ahead at the end of the hallway.  The space feels out of character compared to the perspective from outside. Like Mary Poppins handbag it holds a host of surprises.

Carefully making way through the first door on the right into a generous sized room, large, soft  burgundy sofas sit at natural angles, complimenting the higgledy nature of the, otherwise, tidy living room.

Trinkets bought or inherited with affection furnish the brimming bookcases.  Photo frames, dried flowers, a small, stone statue of a couple entwined. To name just a few.

There are no clean lines. This house belongs to somebody who embraces quirks and comforts.

Soft lighting comes from a crackling log fire, the flames fluttering and dancing, creating a party of shadows on the wall.

If you could touch memories, they would immerse your mind in this room.

Close your eyes, envisaging toast over the open fire on chilly evenings.  Family games of Cludo and Monopoly. Cosy Saturday nights in front of the television and delicious Sunday roast dinners followed by steaming mugs of tea.  Hot cocoa on frosty evenings.  Stories, chat, warmth and love. This building appears to hold dear and magical memories.

Wandering off down the hallway, just before the stairs, is the kitchen.  Pots and pans hang from low beams and an aga resides proudly in the corner, just over there.

A large basket of freshly picked vegetables sits upon the side and an array of oils and seasonings cover the worktops.  Whoever lives in this house must love to cook.

Stepping across old quarry tiles, we walk to the window.

A rockery nestles in the corner of a delightfully eclectic garden. There must have been small children peeking into that rockery once upon a time.  Hands on their knees, they would whisper to each other, painting pictures in their heads of what the frogs and toads were doing, in their dark little burrows. Did Mummy frog wear a pinny as she baked apple pie for her brood of children?

You can envisage days in the sunshine skipping through the playful spray of the hose as Dad turns watering the garden into a game.  Squeals of laughter and delight as ice-cream is offered by Mum, as a tasty treat.

 The essence of this house so far flows with love, family and precious memories.  The warmth is addictive and infectious.  What a fabulous place to grow up in.

Let us make our way up the stairs, at the end of this hallway and explore the rooms above.

The staircase bends up and around to the right where another long corridor greets us.  It is as long as the hall way downstairs but in contrast the light is dull and eerie.

Chills run down the spine, penetrating the bones. The atmosphere is still and silent.   The warmth of the fire seems a million miles away and every part of me wants to race back down the stairs and into the comfort of the beamed kitchen.

But something makes me stay, paralysed and unable to move. 

Why did I climb that staircase?

 Sorrow and sadness spread in waves over me, like an unwanted tide.

 I don’t want to close my eyes because I know the memories in this part of the house will haunt my dreams and hurt my heart.

Looking around, ripped plaster and cracks in the walls appear to be bleeding in the shadowy darkness.

The walls are weeping.

How can one house hold two such different lifetimes? 

Each door is shut tightly.  No inviting light seeps through the cracks.

I shake my head and swallow. I don’t want to open the doors and explore.

Not again.

Wild tears begin to burn my skin, as though terror itself crawls down my face. 

This house, with all of its initial warmth and love, is tainted by ghosts of the past.

 As I turn and look back down the stairs I realize that the poison from this first floor is leaking down the banister.  The paint is chipping, the wood rotting and with anguish I realize it is spreading to the rooms below.  Like a virus that cannot be contained.

You can leave if you wish.  Run down the stairs, out of the door and don’t look back.

 I am afraid that is impossible for me.

You see, this house that we have explored together is more familiar to me than you first realized.

 It is a building that I cannot escape from and these rooms, these rooms upstairs are where I reside much of the time.  I’ve lived here since the day I was born, but it doesn’t exist in the material word.

 The door was open because I let you inside.

No physical key exists, purely because this house happens to be in my head.

It hasn’t always been this way.

But mental health is a cruel and unforgiving visitor.  .

The foundations began to crumble in my late teens and despite my best efforts I found it increasingly hard to and maintain my beautiful, precious home.

Weeds and darkness seeped in and through the walls upstairs.

Pain clung to the rafters and cloaked what was once laughter, with tears. 

 Foundations that had stabilized and supported my happiness, health and contentment began to buckle under the weight and pressure of depression, anxiety, PTSD, panic disorder, social anxiety…  The list goes on.

Damp spread like a blanket of deep sadness and pain. There are times when I have contemplated demolishing my stupid fucking house, and that’s the raw and naked truth.

 Living in it every day can be hell and I often roam the rooms crying and screaming, lost in a void of terror. 

But I know that I can conquer this. 

I know that My House, my Mental Health can be repaired, restored and healed.

The walls will stop weeping, if only for a time.