Regress

That's sweet of you, but, no, I don't want to talk about it. This is my emotional baggage to carry. As time passes, this baggage may become demons. But, even then, they will be my demons to battle against.

. . . . .

It doesn't matter how old you are. It doesn't matter how much progress you think you've made. Or even how much progress you think they have made. Parents have a way of making children regress.

You can be twenty-something, up in your room, listening to music, getting ready to go out with your friends. You think you hear something, so you stop what you're doing, you put down what you have in your hand, you walk over to the stereo. And before you even turn down the music, you know you're going to regret it; but you have to do it, you have to be sure.

With the music down, you can hear their voices. You wish you could convince yourself that they're are just conversing loudly, not arguing. But then again, it's always been easier to lie to others than it has been to lie to yourself.

And just like that, you're five years old again and sitting at the top of the stairs. You sit so still and so silent. They're the ones that are fighting, but you're the vulnerable one. You can't figure it out. You can't figure out why they fight. Why they can't just understand one another. You can't figure out what you can say or do to make it stop. Why wont it ever stop.

It's the most vulnerable you've ever been in your entire life. But here's the catch, it wasn't just when you were five years old. You've been alive for well over twenty years now, but ever single time it happens, you are five years old all over again.

You tell yourself, it's not just me. Hundreds upon hundreds of people go through the same exact thing. They feel the same exact kind of vulnerable. You'll be fine, everyone else is.

So you pick your five year old self up off the stairs and take it back to your room. You turn the music back up, you pick up your hair brush again, and you go back to getting ready to go out with your friends.

But you can still hear their voices, they've become an underlying chorus to the songs. You stand in front of the mirror, brushing your hair, but you don't actually see anything. You're zoning, your eyes have dilated a little and your vision is a stagnant blur. Is that a shell you see in the mirror?

You shake your head; it doesn't matter what you see in the mirror. Don't worry, you tell yourself, you've been planning and preparing for years now. You're going to change things. You're going to make it so these fights don't happen anymore. You're going to take away all those hurdles that seem to keep them apart.

You've only got a few more years to go before you can complete what you are working on. And then you're going to take them, and yourself, and leave this place and leave these people. And we're all going to start all over again. Just a few more years. Just a few more years.

Yes, sometimes you do find yourself thinking that it would be so much simpler to just drop everything and move on to another place. A place where they are not, a place where you only have to worry about yourself.

But you know it's not that easy. It doesn't matter how far away you are from them, that five year old child isn't ever going to feel secure unless you change the things, not the place, that made that child vulnerable in the first place.

Just a few more years and you'll be able to change those things, those circumstances. Right? You've been planning and preparing for years, it's the only plan you have, the only way you know how. But, will it work?

Stop. Stop questioning it. Questioning it wont help. You can't know either way, can you? So there is no point in second guessing it. No, you tell yourself, just keep working towards the plan you have in place.

Focus. Focus. Brush your hair. Pull on your coat. Quietly, slip down the stairs and out the door. No one else has to know what is going on. Get through tonight, then you can come home and think on it some more. Then you can worry about the next step.