My Bucket's Got A Hole In It: The room

"These pains you feel are messengers. Listen to them." ~ Rumi

In psychology, rooms of a home can be representative of a person's psyche. Psychologist Carl Jung had a famous dream about a house. He and Freud dissected the meaning of this dream house to reveal hidden meanings about Jung's unconscious mind. Each room of the house represented a different part of Jung's mind. You can read more about the dream house here.

Two months ago, I began the process of dismantling and redecorating the biggest room in my house: the living room. The room and subsequent dismantling and redecorating of it became quite symbolic. My estranged husband had called the living room his bedroom for over three years. Indeed, the rest of us -- my daughter and myself -- didn't go in there; only the dogs frequented the large, dark, drafty room. The walls were a dingy, dark beige the color of dirty sand, and the carpet was of the same hue. He rarely moved from the sofa, which was also of the same color palate, except to go to work, eat and occasionally shower.

Over the course of three years, nothing was moved or touched; in stagnation, dust collected on all stationary objects, covering books, shelves, and even the baseboards in over an inch of filth and debris. The dogs, often left to their own devices when he would fall asleep on the sofa, had done their business on the carpet countless times, so the acrid aroma of dog piss hung thick in the air. I never knew how he could stand to be in the room for five minutes much less live there. Elaborate, intricate systems of cobwebs of all variety and design hung in corners and from light fixtures.

When I began tackling the room, I ripped up the stinky carpet first; it was stained clean through the padding to the wooden planks below, and made my fingers visibly wet with dog urine to touch it. I hated the dark tan walls, so I decided to paint a bright color and let our 11-year-old daughter choose it: a bright goldenrod. She said it was a happy color, and I agreed. We began the arduous task of removing everything from the room: shelves, curtains, books, other furniture for cleaning.

He reluctantly went along with the deconstruction, but was clearly disturbed and anxious by the changes. But as disturbed as he was by this changing environment and my taking back my living room, I was more disturbed by the state of the room, appalled and startled at the shape of things. I had no idea he had neglected it to the point that he had. He struggled with depression, but anyone would be depressed living in such a place. Like a hyperbolic chicken-and-egg scenario, I wondered which came first: his depression? or was he depressed because of the state of the room?

The room had become a metaphor, a representation of his disconnect not only from me and our family, but from much more. As I cleaned an inch of dirt and dust from the shelves and books, I saw clearly what depression looks like. It doesn't just look like someone who gives up on themselves; it looks like someone who gives up on everything. I could see the places where I had come unglued on the walls like tea leaves: splatters of coffee stains told the story of anger and frustration with his apathy; dents in walls from the impact of fists revealed past unrest. My own grief overwhelmed me.

Anger can be a huge motivator if directed properly, which ours never was. And each of us had things to be angry about, and each held onto that anger like a precious stone, unwilling or unable to let go.

During the week the redecoration of the room started, tension reached new levels between us (partially spawned by my discovery of many lies and pressuring him for answers, and partially from his lack of empathy for the hurt he had caused), he abruptly moved out. Tension had built to a breaking point over that week the details of which I will save for another story. Our relationship had spanned 14 years of roller-coaster-like ups and downs, break ups and abuse, infidelity and pain, and neither of us had clean hands. Like the room, we'd uncovered dirt and cobwebs and, like the room, we reached a culmination, an ugly crescendo that shattered like a million points of glass.

After the initial trauma of the abrupt vacancy, I set out to finish the room, mostly as a final exorcism of the hate that had lived there. I bought a new sofa and recliner and burned the one he'd used as a bed for three years. I purchased a flat screen TV even though I rarely watch it. I picked up a few accent tables at thrift or discount stores. I burned sage and tried everything I could think of to rid the negative pallor from the room. But no matter what I did, I was haunted by his hate. It followed me in my sleep causing nightmares. It would not allow me to sleep more than four hours at a time. I bought several large plants and brought home some small sections of birch trees from my favorite places in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. I began meditating in the room. And then I discovered something.

I was not myself. I am still not myself. I lost myself in a vortex of a loveless, abusive marriage and an abrupt severing of someone who had been in my life for a very long time. Discovering someone I knew for 14 years was living a double life and lying about everything - even things that would be easier to tell the truth about - has fragmented me. And I don't know how to begin the process of getting myself back. And I've realized that, like the room dismantle, I have been dismantled, and so now I have to find a way to clear the cobwebs, paint the walls and find a new healthy space. In the process of creating that new healthy space, I have gone through a metamorphosis, and the changes have not always been attractive or things I am proud of.

But here's what I know: the way to repair what's been destroyed is to start at the beginning, and when you get to the end, stop.

I am starting from ground zero. I am creating a clean, safe space in my home and my mind.