The floor creaks. The child weeps. The walls hear more than anyone would believe. So much more.

This sweet little child, no more than 10, forced to listen to and answer her parents. Demeaning and cold, they spat and scolded, this child- a soul meant to hold… hope, love, and trust. Oh, what these walls have seen, but could not save; this child who prayed to be brave.

But these walls, they were mighty, yet powerless. Like an unopened Bible, I wished these 9 foot tall walls held hope for me from within. Still, they stood. That was all they could do.

I stood, barely weathering their storm. I was that child.

To me, that ca 1740’s house wasn’t ever a home. How could it be? Throughout all those years these mighty plaster walls remained strong- not crumbling like my vulnerable heart. Perhaps if my parents could hear themselves they would see what they were doing to me. But these walls and I weren’t a team. They were simply witnesses who stood still and listened.

Those walls only restrained me, and kept away all who might save my withering soul. When my parents screamed and undermined me in every way they could, my heart felt cold, lonely, and weak. Any child would tend to believe what these villains continued to spew. So I wondered. I needed to know I wasn’t the child who was never meant to be. The child whose life was almost ended when its heart had barely begun to beat. I was just an existence, forced to endure this hell, because I was that inconvenient existence. Only just an inconvenient existence. Nothing more.

Over the years the house settled, resulting in minor cracks on the walls, which luckily, never compromised the integrity therein. The foundation of this old farmhouse remained strong. But I wished to be like these walls; strong with my integrity intact. But when the house finally settled, the cracks remained- just like words I heard and would never forget.

Perhaps I was “a dumb bitch.” Maybe I didn’t deserve all my sister and brother were given. I never belonged in my family’s hearts, but I often wondered if I belonged in the basement. The mortar between the stones in these basement walls was slowly disintegrating. Little pieces of dust that, like a feather, danced in the filtered light that escaped through the floorboards above.

I too, wanted to dance. I wanted to know what happiness and freedom felt like. I wanted my soul to feel the warmth emanating from the radiators above. But I only felt and heard the rumbling vibrations from the antiquated, often broken heater nearby; it was a metaphor for my hope. Originally I sought to hold hope. Increasingly, their every accusation, invalidation and undermining of my personhood, sent vibrations through me, rendering me temporarily numb, until the spark within me could find its flame.

With time, I began to look at these walls and the resilience they stood for; they dared to withstand all that comes with time. They still stand strong despite the dilapidating mortar in the basement. I wanted to be like them. I learned, with time that I could be them.

Soon I learned that the flickering within the depths of my core had the capacity to keep me warm. I realized the strength I own from the lathe and plaster that comprise my very being. You see, these walls don’t confine me anymore. I now look to find every doorway and window to feel the warmth of the sunlight that pours into a soul that both endured and survived.

These walls heard it all. They didn’t warp like wood, or sink like sand. They simply stood. And I will stand- for who I am. I have become all that I was meant to be. I am free and I will dance, and sing and delight in my very being. And after all those years when I thought I was crumbling; I now see that I was shedding- angst and torment caused by my parents’ vile, demeaning words.

I looked to these still-standing walls, so I too, could be my parents’ echo, and not the keeper of the pain they tried to inflict. Like these walls, I too will remain standing strong as time has its way. And I will always remember- despite hearing it all, I am these walls.