We all have had that certain situation or memory that, while we understand how it affected us, we never understood why it did so to such an extent. Part of the reason they impact us so much is because those times impact us not only in the ways we know of, those obvious to us, but also in ways we find out later, harder to notice and even more difficult to get rid of. When I was younger, a family tragedy moved my consciousness to the extreme. A lot of the permanent possessions left on me are full of things I never knew would have had such a drastic effect on me. Sure, I had seen it happen again and again in my mind for years after its occurrence and the person who caused it all had been moved and even though he wasn’t there, was nowhere near where I was, I could always imagine it happening again. I thought this the biggest result. As the years progressed, I found more things that came as a sort of side-effect of this situation; I wouldn’t allow myself to be physically touched (even for a hug), I was extremely spermatophobic (fearful of germs), I couldn’t see myself as above anyone else, I didn’t care about myself, and I was depressed. The worst fear I had was that of the room it all went down in: the room I still inhabit.

The desk that sits in the back corner stares blankly back at me as I glance around the room; the devastating memory swarms me once again. The pressure builds in my lower back as I feel the hollowed structure break skin. It was warm, almost comforting, but torturous and disturbing. The blistering scarlet ran in bursts down my body and to the floor. I could feel it congeal on my legs and slide like Jell-O down the rest of me. The reminiscence, as dark and lingering as the others, makes me smile to myself. After a while, I started to enjoy the feeling. It wasn’t the pain that bothered me as much as the smell of the blood and the memory of the act, both of which were not even thought of. As when this always happens, I push the thought out of my mind and write about the happenings in my journal to come to a realization on how my mind went through the process of overcoming these thoughts. To heal from this, I was always told to endure it, not to push it out or write about it. Facing the incident was supposed to help me overcome this fragile break in my consciousness, but even though I had made myself withstand its torment, the thoughts still came to me in a rage of fury, as stubborn as the man himself. I had long since lost hope in any such advice and stuck to writing it all down in my depressed scrawl. After a while, though, it began to help, unlike the advice of my therapist. The cataleptic remembrance of the man’s existence began to fade and I was left with only a memory. Even so, the dramatizations still surge in my brain when I am most oblivious of them.

I can still see the bed, as messed up as it was, in perfect detail. The sheets were crumpled together in a tight mesh at the bottom. Likewise, the blankets were held together at the top. Pillows were thrown haphazardly around the entire room, only one actually remaining on the surface of the bed. These physical features are gone now, so their lasting effect would never accurately register to me. This is probably a good thing. The mattress is surely the only thing left near that to remember the event by. While most people would forgive and forget, I was never able to, was never given a reason to, so the memories still swarm, especially that of the mattress. As hard as it is to picture the physical torment exactly, I can still feel the emotion laced around it. The hurt and pain, the threatening and horror, the revolt and concentration, all rolled into one with so many others I have no way of describing. My dreams, nightmares, haunted my awakened state and told me that the anguish would never end. The world I had created in my dreams seemed to leak into my personal experiences; every day, I was once again trampled by the memory of my nightly fears as they dripped into the thoughts, words and actions of those around me. I would find myself worse off in my depression, contemplating death and what it would ultimately bring me.

The dark stripes of the cloth as defined as his teeth against his lips, spread in a smile, curve around like snakes, tangled in each other. The plain orange, as colorless and thoughtless as my mind circle the world of it. The blood red was just as thick, as tasteless, as rusted as mine. I would never find myself moving closer to grab it. No matter how cold I could have been, I would never feel safe grabbing it to keep the icy feel of the air out from around me. The fear was always thick in my throat, suffocating my every action. Likewise, the thought of even touching the rough surface was hard for me. I would never find myself reaching out to it, to stroke its petrifying surface, to pull it off the shelf and throw it out. No, these thoughts would never cross my mind in the many years of its existence. The mere knowledge of its existence had frightened me as well. In mid sleep, I’d awaken and stare blankly in its direction, unaware of its curves continuing life in the dark reaches of my closet, and then I’d fall mercilessly into an imagination far worse than any nightmare. Due to my unconscious mind, the shape of the folded blanket would warp to that of anything feral and terrifying. As frightened as it had made me every time, this blanket still sits in my closet to this day (because I could never bring myself to handle its absurd surface to get rid of it), memories surrounding its rigid facade in a cloud of a horror story.

As I walk into my room, another memory swarming my mind, I realize what affects me the most; the door. The seemingly fragile surface and the hollow interior as alive as any organism, with eyes that see through to my soul and a face that is always enraged because of a scar I obviously caused. Now, I never inflicted any pain or ailed its figure on purpose. While it was caused by purpose, it was not that of my own. I can still feel the pain on my back as I hit it. That dreadful cracking, I can still hear it in the air. I have apologized to the inanimate object countless times, but it seems to do no good. I never feel like I change a feeling or cruel look the door might give me, only make it worse. Its stares become untamed, almost as crazed as a rabid animal, looking for a victim. I was, of course, always the victim. This is the main reason why I know the mere presence of the door has affected me so much; a lifeless figure cannot look at me or feel anything about me, it is simply there. The fact that it has such an impact on me is a mystery in itself.

At different times in all of our lives, we experience scenarios that we believe we will never be able to overcome. It is at this time, we break down. We unknowingly have faith in the thought that this is our climax; we will never go higher, as we are not meant to. This is a rational thought, as it is a hard barrier to get passed. What is commonly misunderstood is the fact that you can get over your specific state. The situation happening isn’t the real problem, so getting over what is minor should not be an issue. As a result, once you get passed it, there are many other issues you will have to deal with afterwards. These issues are not easily noticed or recognized. They have a lasting effect on you that you may be unaware of. You might not even notice that they exist. These issues could be the end of you.