My Rug

There has always been a non-living family member in my home. It was the rug. We loved it. We hated it. We needed it. Our Rug is shaggy and heavy and dark. It never had a name but had already taken shape when I came around. It was square at one point. Rugged and familiar. It always blends in with whatever environment we introduced it to. And yes, it was mobile. It moved with us from 1905 to 2180; now 7793 is its residence.

Our Rug knew all the secrets. It kept them. And it was never cleaned. On the way to school, church, and work Our Rug was always in attendance. With all seven of us in the car, we learned to carefully maneuver around it, being sure it had ample room to stretch and soak up our truths. Our Rug was heaviest on the way to church. When dust mites escaped into sermons, the ride home made Our Rug multiply in just a few words. Our Rug was most evident in our relationships both past and present.

Our Rug was both the sixth child and third parent- the fly on the wall in some households yet always baggage in mine.

I first noticed My Rug when I was a child. My vocabulary hadn’t matured enough to bestow it a name. As I grew older I saw that it was more of an inheritance. In college, I barely noticed My Rug as it had befittingly camouflaged itself in my first apartment. I was changing so much My Rug couldn’t keep up. Then the conversations began sounding familiar, and I couldn’t unsee it. It was never hidden, I just wasn’t looking for it or much else then.

After college, I started moving across the country. From Florida to Texas to Cali, My Rug was and is my longest relationship. In each state, I hired movers hoping My Rug would hold shape and more importantly the secrets. Then I came home. Not the pit stop of Westchase, but home.

For the move home, this time I was the packer and unpacker. Every box, hanger, and shoe was strategically organized into a storage unit while I awaited the ink to dry. Then the time came to clear out the storage unit. Underneath each column of boxes flattened to the bottom was My Rug. I wanted to leave it but I knew My Rug carried too much truth to part with. So like every other move, I positioned myself to grab My Rug in one clean sweep but it didn’t budge.

It was heavy, like generational curses heavy. I tried calling for help to no avail. It was a hot, summer day and the humidity of Florida kept folks in their own house, tending to their own rugs. I thought back to the conversation with the clerk when I declined the air-conditioned storage unit. I said “NO” firmly. I wanted things to die in this storage unit, not thrive, especially the lies. Now in the unit, I got on my knees to try and roll up My Rug hoping it would have dropped some dead weight. With one end turned over, My Rug started spilling secrets that weren’t all mine. Childhood trauma tried to escape so I instantly stopped. This storage unit wasn’t the place for all this mess. It wasn’t big enough and I didn’t want to get caught. I got up and took a step back trying to decide my next move. Choosing to let it air out, I struggled and finally pulled it out of the storage unit. I went to get the truck in hopes of throwing it on the back but when I went to lift My Rug it still wouldn’t budge.

Once My Rug was on the pavement, I sat next to it. The heat was working through me and My Rug and I was feeling exhausted and exposed. I grabbed my water bottle and sat down next to My Rug. I might as well hydrate. Out in the sun, I noticed My Rug had an odor. It no longer smelled like the candles and pacifying words I always keep nearby. It smelled like hurt. It smelled like death. It smelled like disappointment. The more I sat next to My Rug the more the smell turned my stomach. I started gagging and crying from just having it outside for the first time, unable to disguise it. I repositioned myself with my back towards My Rug but the smell kept traveling through my nostrils to my heart. I wasn’t smelling anymore, I was remembering. I was reliving the beatings and the fights all in the name of love. Then came the rejection from first my sister then my Aunt making cousins look like foes. The abuse in Georgia started rearing its head before I could get up on my feet to escape the turmoil. It was too late.

My Rug was out in the open, feeling free in more ways than I ever could. While no one was around I felt a complete audience of one. Me. Different ages, all me. Watching it unfold I looked past that version of me and saw my mother. I saw her at different ages with me. She was 27 with a chunky baby full of hair. She was thirty, married to my Daddy. As I focused on her, I saw she also had a rug. And Her Rug was overlapping mine. Wait, My Rug was overlapping hers! I couldn’t make out where one ended and the other began.

To my right, I saw my Daddy and His Rug. Then both Grannies and Their Rugs. There was no end or beginning just different patterns that all seemed to blend.

Intrusive thoughts winning, I stepped on My Rug. I saw my ends were becoming more defined and not blending with the others around me as much. I took a few hard leaps on My Rug and pressed out some nightmares and rumors. With each footstep, I saw my ends splitting from the family ties and grew nervous. I don’t want to lose my family. I never did. But I still kept stepping. I still kept moving. I saw the distance as My Rug continued to split away. I didn’t know it would create this space but I know it’s better this way. It’s lighter. I can lift it now.

The final destination is Home, 7793. Having My Rug now manageable, I promised to never let it get heavy like that again. I promise to stop the generational curse of putting things under it and take the time to stomp out the mess. It’s a process but I’ve honed skills to add that are added to my arsenal. I have love. I have peace. I have boundaries. I have time. And there is no time like the present.