For eleven months now, I’ve had PTSD, following a violent attack, and my panic attacks are not really going away. It’s not a pretty thing that people want to know about or discuss. We’d all really rather I were normal–whatever that word means.
I really like hiding away in my closet when anxiety creeps in. It’s the quietest place in the house, it’s not so bright there either, and I feel safe in the smaller space. I know it’s odd. Just try to explain your habit of freaking out in your closet next to the impractical shoes to someone you might want to date. It makes you really popular, in case you’re wondering. It’s more of a fifth date confession.
My boyfriend really sees who I am in this closet, the good and the bad. And recently he did a beautiful thing; he put a giant beanbag in there for me.
The beanbag’s overstuffed and too big for its spot–
a chair for you and a bed for me.
Beige microfiber, in full fluff just below the lowest hanger racks.
It cradles my whole body, hugging me when no one else will.
It’s one of the nicest things anyone’s done for me.
You didn’t try to drag me into the light, puffy-eyed and sniffling,
where you could pretend this isn’t happening.
You didn’t impose a timeline on my recovery,
never treating my panic like it’s fleeting.
You pulled up a chair and invited me to be comfortable
while in pain.
Like a spouse settling into a hospital chair to wait out the night,
you settled in like you’d stay.
In the beanbag for two in my closet.