I’ve never liked the term “broken home." What makes it broken? The structure is still firmly intact, the foundation of the house still going strong even after harsh weather and storms, and the home is still a home. So why is it broken? The memories broke it. The family that we once were, is what caused the home to invisibly crumble. What we try so hard to hold onto is ultimately what breaks us.
The house that I currently live in has been my only constant for the last 14 years of my life. It’s been the one thing that hasn’t been touched by the inhumanity of this world. It’s my safe place, it’s my sanctuary. It’s also a place that has memories seeping through the cracks in the walls, and each room holds a special place in my heart. I can tell you that under one of the wooden floorboards, to the left of the fireplace, is a game of tic-tac-toe that my sister and I played when my father was in the process of building our beloved home. I can show you the exact location in my front yard where I was asked to prom. I can walk by the dining room and almost see how happy our family used to be on the holidays. When we would light candles along the table and watch the snow fall as we stayed warm and passed along the homemade food that was literally, cooked with love.
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Now, please, tell me how that describes a broken home? That home is what keeps the memories of my family alive, that home is what made me the person I am today. I’m sure you were expecting an article that was about a sappy tribune to the life of a child affected by divorce, but what good would that do for anyone? Yes, my parents are divorced. No, I did not have a picture perfect family growing up. I have come to terms with that, and I have accepted that things happen for a reason and that my parents, as much as it hurts to not see them together, are happier being apart.
A broken home is by no means a representation of the aftermath of a divorce. What you decide to do with the home after all is said and done is what determines whether or not it’s broken. I refused to allow my only constant to be destroyed. I refused to allow the arguments, the heartbreak, and the tears ruin the home that built me, because that’s exactly what it is, it is the house that built me.
In the years since my parents divorced, and in the years that I’ve spent living in that house, and gracing those rooms everyday for the last 14 years, I have realized that it never was the house that was broken, it was us. Although the term “broken home” doesn’t literally refer to the home itself as opposed to the family that lives there, I think of it as a very condescending term.
I am not broken, my home is not broken, and although my parents are no longer in a relationship, my family is also not broken. So stop pitying me. Stop feeling sorry for the lack of parental authority I had growing up. It made me who I am, and I am thankful for this “broken home” for giving me the strength to be independent. For giving me the knowledge of being able to decipher a healthy relationship from an unhealthy relationship. For giving me the power to learn and grow. I am no longer broken.
