There is Safety in Hiding

Decay @Kelsi M. Ozbun

So it’s been almost a year, again.

I’ve been hiding,

and living,

but mostly hiding.

Today I am hiding. The phone rings, three times now, I think, and I just look at it wondering what the other end of the line could possibly want with me.

I am hiding at the dining room table while I stare out the back door at the sunlight as it fades from the leaves that remain on the trees. I could have when out and felt the soft warm glow on my skin, but I’m hiding.

I hear the world go on outside: children, cars, yee-yee trucks with tow mirrors on display, the exhaust garbled as the sound penetrates the walls of my humble hiding place.

What was once a beautiful place to escape and share my thoughts has become a terrifying thing prone to give away my secrets, to let people on the outside know things I don’t want them to know. That is why I haven’t written….here.

I have written other places, but it does not feel the same. I have become fearful of the known, as well as the unknown.

The truth is, I don’t want others to know what is going on with me.

I don’t want people to see the ugliness, the skinless, the near boneless version of me that I have become. The version of me that is terrified of everything: food, water, pleasure, enjoyable feelings, everything because it can all be taken away from me without a moment’s notice.

So many good things have happened to me this year, and some bad; enough to scare me still; to scare me quiet.

Just stop asking me to be myself. That gets me hurt, that brings pain, that takes trust and trust is easily broken, again and again and again and again.

Just leave me alone: my thoughts are mean, hateful, and despairing sometimes, but at least I know what to expect with them. They aren’t unpredictable like another human being is. I can trust that they will remain as they always were.

I need not be pained by my eating disorder. He is the same as he always was and though an asshole on occasion, he does not scare me because I know him. I know what he will do. I know what he will say. His solidarity is comforting. The pain is familiar. Safe. It doesn’t come on suddenly, without warning. It doesn’t linger longer than normal. It comes and goes with the tide of the ocean, predictable and comfortable.

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