I was looking through some writing I have done in the past and I found this:
I am ten years old. I sit in the closet, tense and alert. Every sound pricks my ears and I envision tiny droplets of blood streaming down the sides of my cheeks, mingling with the tears dripping from my eyes and my clenched sweaty fists. There is a loud sound, like a glass jar being dropped on a wooden floor, a shrill scream, soft jagged sobbing, then silence.
The closet is dark. The bottoms of winter coats graze the top of my head. I focus on a pile of plushy stuffed animals; I look into their empty dark eyes and slow my breathing until I am holding my breath. How long can I hold if for, I wonder? I picture my face draining of color, my lungs screaming at me, begging me for air and I tell them no, shake my head and squint my eyes, plug my nose. I lay back on the animals and their eyes feel cool against my skin. My mouth opens in a shudder and a gasp as I suddenly suck back in air. I wish I had the strength to hold it forever, to slip away to a place where I don’t have to hide in a closet, afraid to make a sound.
Before I crept into the closet I cleaned my entire room, folding clothes, putting away books, placing crayons back in their boxes. “Be very good, be very neat” I told myself when the angry words whipped into the air, piercing the quiet Sunday afternoon like a blender full of ice. I immediately stopped reading my novel and quietly moved about my room, stopping every few seconds to listen for the end. The sharp sounds rose and fell and came close to the door which caused me to move to the closet floor and slide the wooden door shut, sealing me off from the room.
Now I have been in my bedroom closet for twenty minutes that feel like five hours. The quiet is looming and I know it is only moments before the storm will erupt, tearing down my door and pulling me away from the vacant stares of my lifeless companions that can never save me.
*****
I am eighteen years old. I sit in my walk in closet on top of a box full of my clothes, long sleeved cardigans, cargo pants and striped socks. My feet are resting on another box of books, a lamp, assorted memories tucked in a hand painted shoebox. Bad memories tucked in the back of my mind. I write in my journal:
“So this is it. I am sitting on the boxes stacked up in my closet. For all the times we’ve moved I’ve had that kind of excitement, that anticipation, that…feeling. “Things will be better this time.” This time, however, it’s just…me. Just me leaving, me changing, me ignoring the lie of “things will better this time, in this new place” and living the reality that it will be amazing because I am finally moving on and finally escaping. I guess I will only miss two people. Of course I will miss her. She is my only escape now or at least as close as it can get. And I hate to admit it but I know in my heart I will miss him. I like how he looks at people when he talks to them. He looks at your face like he might actually care about what you are saying. He noticed how I blush and commented on it a few times but he wasn’t mean about it. After the first time he said it I waited until everyone was asleep and I sat with my feet in the sink in front of the bathroom mirror and I stared at myself. I examined every inch of my face, my long nose seems to grow by the second. My eyebrows are totally different from each other, one is curved. My lips are too thin. I blush at the slightest dirty thought, shiver at the smallest touch. But I’m me. I know that should be enough but I wish it was so much more… I wonder if she knows I am scared of my future. I’m scared about what’s going to happen to me, who is going to forget me. I’m afraid she will move on and won’t want to waste her time with me anymore. I am scared because she is the only stability I sometimes have in my life. I’m scared I’m actually going to miss these people who don't understand me and lose my spirituality and grieve for a past that is best left alone. I am so scared of these things and I feel like I can’t even breathe sometimes... Maybe she doesn’t need me at all. I can’t deal with this now. I have to pack. I have to go. Time is running out.”
Now, I'm twenty nine years old. I can't sleep. I wish I could hide in my closet, alone, for a little while.
