Tuesday, June 16, 2009

All Cried Out

I've been having the most frustrating dreams of late. Last night, in my sleep, our family moved to a huge mansion with large grounds and gleaming bay windows. They relegated me to a huge bedroom with a giant master bed in the right wing of the mansion, far away from the main body of the house where my parents were supposed to stay. On the first night, my parents barged into the room in the middle of the night to make sure I wasn't harbouring any unwelcome guests.

Desperate for some privacy, I went to lock the door after they had left, crossing yards of plush carpet. To my surprise, the heavy wooden door was lined with about twenty locks on its outside edge. There were sliding latches, latches that swung on hinges like an old-fashioned army canteen, chains to prevent the door from swinging open wider than a foot, buttons to press to make a metal bar swing into place.

It was three in the morning then, and feeling haggard and worn, I started systematically locking the door from the top to the bottom, fastening every push, latch and hook.

But nothing would catch. Each time I closed a lock, it would slide back open or hang loose and limp. One sliding latch came right off in my hand, the screws and wood rotten with rust. No matter what I slid or pushed, the metal bar wouldn't click shut and the door swung open again and again.

For four hours, I went from top to bottom shakily shutting and re-shutting every lock, with no result. "I just need to get some sleep," I was thinking frantically, rattling the chains and handles in exasperation and cold sweat.

I woke up shivering and ginger, feeling utterly defeated. Maybe it's some subconcious, Freudian sign of how I feel like I have absolutely no privacy or control over my life. Maybe it's just that I need to fix the lock on my real-life bedroom door.

Whatever the case, I need you to understand how hard this is for me. I need you to see that it's because I'm not used to feeling this out of control or threatened, or insecure. I'm a complete basketcase and I can't handle myself when everything's crashing down on me. You have to realise that I knew somewhere inside that you would be able to wreck me with a single flick of your finger if you wanted.

I have to live with that, deal with that, sleep with that.

Most of all, I need you to see that I'll never be able to tell you.

"I'd sooner die than lose you."

And I don't want to die.


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