Culprit of Tears

January 24, 2018
By criley BRONZE, Southborough, Massachusetts
criley BRONZE, Southborough, Massachusetts
1 article 0 photos 0 comments

Weathered, cherry, wood floors cold to the touch on my bare legs. Bumpy, white painted walls rubbed against my arms every time I would squeeze into the small space. Old metal that is no longer shiny but rough to the touch squeaked every time I would open the doors. My childhood room consisted of a twin bed, one window, and a closet. Behind the set of white folding doors in my very small, blue room held many secrets to my childhood. Diaries, books, stuffed animals, arts and crafts were all shoved in my closet. Not to mention the millions of clothes that would frequently tumble out like lava from an exploding volcano. Aside from the physical objects that my closet contained it also held my feelings and emotions. My closet was my hiding spot, for the times about once a month when a panic like being tumbled by a wave would hit me.

With the two doors open it was all a blur of colorful clothing and miscellaneous things  except for the bottom left corner. I had rearranged the whole closet just so that I could fit my delicate little body into the tight hiding spot. A light pink baby blanket lay on top of the wooden floors as my cushion because the wood floors became uncomfortable after a while.

Over my many years of being alive there have been many instances that my closet has been the culprit of tears. The place I would go to cry over stupid delimages and stressful moments in my life. My closet sat diagonally across from the door to my room, making it the farthest distance away. The bottom left corner of my closet was the farthest point in my room. Hence why I picked it because no one could ever hear me cry. The loud roars from my sad, young heart weeping I wanted to let out but I refused to let others hear or see. So instead I would hide in my closet.

Something or someone made me upset, or sad and I was off. Like a racing horse up the uncarpeted stairs of my house taking every step with precaution even though the tears would be blurring my vision. I opted for the sneaky quiet get away and tried to be unnoticed. I would not want to talk to anyone in those times because I was not emotionally okay and wanted to be alone. I kept my feet quiet on the stairs trying to make as little noise as possible. No matter how quiet I was it was always followed by more footsteps up the stairs. 

“Bang Bang Bang” I would hear and think “God please don't make me open the door and face my parents.”
“Twist, turn, pull” The sounds that followed was the fidgeting with the doorknob until a second later when they would realize it was locked.
“Caroline open your door up now” Was the classic ending to my peaceful closet hideout.

I would always sit silent for a moment after they knocked. I just wanted to be alone. My face would be fiery red and hot, my lips salty from tears, my heart pounding like I had just run a marathon, and my fist clenched in frustration. I never felt like myself in those moments. “No don't give in don't open the door, don't respond maybe you just aren't in the room” those were my thoughts. Who was I kidding they knew I was in there. After the moment was over though another strike would happen “Caroline open your door” and that's when I would and crawl out of the closet and quickly walk to my door and unlock it.

I would go from frantic to calm when my parents would come in and talk to me. The tone of their voice was always so different than the one at the door. My red face was a clear indication I was not okay. I am filled with gratitude my mom or dad would always follow me up the stairs even though I never wanted them to. They continued to knock on the door, knowing I would never open it at first, but they would never give up. Although my closet held a lot of tears my parents were the ones who always cleaned them up.

I consider myself sensitive but not in the usual way. My sensitivity is getting yelled at by my brothers, friends, or parents. The things and people I care about a lot, disappointment makes me cry. And forever that closet in the home I have lived my whole life had swaddled me like a blanket and allowed me to cry in private. I am older now and I try not to cry as much. Three years ago we got rid of my closet. Little did my parents know that the spot I had spent so much time and that had tear-stained floors, now sat a desk and a chair. Ironic that when I got older we got rid of the closet. It was a time for me to grow up, to stop crying and start learning to cope. It was time for me to fix situations instead of hiding from them. I have learned that you cannot hide and that hiding will never be the answer. Hiding actually causes more hurt than help.

The author's comments:

My descriptive essay is about me as a child having panic attacks and hiding in my closet. Although this is one of my more personal pieces of writing I have am proud of it because it shares my experience with others. I think that the ending of my essay also provides a nice message to the reader

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