I used to sleep with the door cracked open.
I let my mom adjust it as she left me in the dark room. My bed was across from the door back then, and I could see her through the small window of space.
I lived in that window; my bed was a few feet off the wall, and my possessions were a few feet away from the other side of the bed.
Back then, that space meant hope. It was small, but it was temporary, and I saw her face in it every night; the door needed to be cracked with the utmost precision.
I would end each day in a fit of giggles as she failed to meet my tedious demands.
More open.
More open.
Just a little more open.
Too open! Too open! I laughed.
Just a little more closed.
Just right.
I ended every single night with those words. They came from my own mouth, yet they sounded like a lullaby that only a stranger’s novelty could impose.
However, some nights, I had nightmares. Creatures from my deepest fears threatened who and what I loved most. I engaged in the universal experience of standing timidly outside my parents’ door, not wanting to be a burden yet unable to sleep in my now-haunted bed.
I was truly, completely, utterly petrified of everything the dark and its watchful eyes held. My room and the spirits that I swore lurked in its corners terrified me.
So, after ten minutes, I would gain the courage to knock. I stayed for a while and then (usually) returned to my room; I would keep the door halfway open under these circumstances. The hallway light saved me from the terrors inside my own four walls by providing evidence of the comforting outside.
Now, I sleep with the door shut.
I struggle through my night routine and often fall asleep with the light on.
I know every crevice of my room, in both broad daylight and the dark, and I am not scared of my room whatsoever.
My bed is now in the corner furthest from my door, and it can be opened and shut and cracked and closed without me seeing a face.
Now, I have found my fears are on the outside. I remain inside in the comfort of my askew couch and disastrous dresser. In the comfort of my pristine desk and alphabetized record albums. In the comfort of the only place in my house that feels like home.
My fears lie on the outside of my safe haven.
Anything could be on the other side of my door. I lock myself in and suffocate myself but it’s my only option; I either face myself with the door closed, or I face my fears in the hallway.
I miss my open door.
