Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again…
Our homes have such a hold on us, our subconscious minds pulling them into our dreams no matter how long it’s been since we lived there – sometimes even homes we’ve never actually lived in, like my Nana’s council house, the place of sleepovers and family gatherings. In dreams, the home might not look anything like the house we know, and yet we still recognise it as home, despite the extra room that has appeared halfway up the stairs, or the fact that it’s now beneath the sea and a shark has taken up residence on the sofa. These can dreams infuse our waking state with nostalgia, longing or regret; hiraeth, a Welsh word with a sense of longing for a lost home or home we’ve never had.
Mossy Cottage is my hiraeth, the house of my dreams, a far cry from the Victorian two-up, two-down that I’m currently living in with the children. Our last home – the place that was bought on the basis of it being our forever home – is sorely missed. During the divorce I struggled to decide whether or not to fight Simon for the right for the children and I to remain living in the family home. Friends urged me not to give it up, that he can’t kick you out of your home. The domestic abuse support worker warned me to stay put, that we’d never get a place that was anywhere near as nice. My mother, horrified by the lack of gas central heating, the thought of me shovelling coal early in the mornings, and the overgrown, uncontrollable garden, tried to persuade me to get the hell out of Dodge. The children pleaded to stay. The mediator took a brief look at the figures and assured me that there was no question about it – I could keep the house, Simon would keep everything else. Even if all I fought for was a stay of execution, Simon retaining a charge on the house until Lily had finished school; Lily, our Aspie child, who had developed epilepsy shortly after we separated. I worried what a house move would do to her, particularly an unwanted one. I even offered for Simon to keep the house while the council rehomed me and the kids, knowing at least they’d still get to spend some time in their home. For me, a different house might be a lot easier to run, especially if it had central heating, which only added to my ambivalence. And yet – it was our home.
The House in the Sky. At a creative writing workshop I went to shortly after we moved into the family home, I met an older woman who had considered buying the house a couple of years earlier. Her daughter had very sensibly talked her out of it, listing the many difficult practicalities, but the house haunted her dreams – The House in the Sky, as she called it, high up on the hill, with the sweeping panoramic view of the valley beneath, the hills climbing up away in the distance. “There was just something about it,” she confessed and I nodded. There was. The first friend to visit stood in awe of the view in front of the massive window in the living room – a window so large that the double glazing firm we brought in told us it was the largest single panel they’d ever installed into a domestic setting. “Ah, you’ll take it for granted soon enough,” she told us.
I was grateful to my friend for that phrase, for pointing out the dangers of familiarity, how soon we get used to the very thing we once longed for. For me, it was the lure of green that had me aching to leave the city, tired of looking out of my window and seeing only grey. Once she’d said it, I decided that I would never, ever take my new view for granted. Every single time I looked out of my windows, I would appreciate the beauty of those views. Simple pleasures can bring the greatest joys in life if we take the time to relish them and for me that was sitting on the huge, snuggly sofa, cup of tea in hand, looking out at the view. Watching the tiny subtle changes that grew day by day marking the seasons go by, the bare sticks of winter gradually studding with tiny green buds, unfurling into leaves and blossoms, the colours shifting from bright to darker green, to reds and oranges until Winter brought bare branches again and the wonder of a landscape altered by frost and snow.
In the end I had no choice. We had to move. It was clear that Simon’s abuse would not stop until he got what he want, which was to sell our home and buy a new place with his girlfriend. Their actions meant I no longer felt safe, meanwhile he was subjecting the children to emotional abuse. Agreeing to the sale seemed to be the only way I could protect us; Simon clearly believed that the house was his, not ours, had no thought as to what was best for the children, and would never allow us to live there in peace. Naively, I thought the situation would improve once he’d got his way. I was wrong.
My God, I miss my home. Miss it more than I thought I would, like a void inside me, something hollow in my belly that can’t be filled. A huge part of this hiraeth stems from the fact that the new place is now too small, too impractical for the three of us. When I chose it, the tenth house that I had been to view, the children were only supposed to be living with me for half of each week, meanwhile the available houses were flying out of the estate agents’ windows in a sellers’ market. It didn’t matter so much that the place was small – after all, the kids would have half of their possessions at their father’s new house. It didn’t matter that there was nowhere to park, or that it wasn’t as convenient for the school run – I would only be taking the kids to school for half of the week. And so on, and so on, with all the difficulties I could list about the place. But of course, both children now live with me full time, and so it matters. You should have fought him, the voice in my head now tells me. You should have fought to stay. Yet the abuse would have continued, would have worsened, and at least he doesn’t have a key to my new place. At least we are safe here.
I miss my House in the Sky. But this tiny terrace is my home now, and I must make the most of it. Despite the regret of having to move, I welcomed the security that the new house would offer – I looked forward to making it a home. Unfortunately, my first year here was instead marred by Simon’s second malicious court case, my time and energy wasted on legal battles. I struggled to just make it habitable and functional while dealing with the endless statements, correspondence and admin that court required. Now that court is hopefully over, with only a few remaining legal issues to clear up, it’s time to turn my attention to making my house our home. Except of course, a year down the line, I’m even more drained and exhausted, without having had a chance to heal. The house feels overwhelming, the struggle being to manage to just stay on top of the daily chores, never mind improve the place. Is it possible to find gentleness and healing in creating a home, rather than stress and overwhelm? The question seems to merit an obvious yes, and yet I find myself exhausted before I start. During counselling I could think of nothing that was a possibility for my new life, other than perhaps I might enjoy creating a garden for myself. And so: Mossy Cottage, my attempt at creating both home and healing, starting over while trying to leave the past behind.