Doing the unstuck

I am not good at saying goodbye. Ever since my father left for abroad, I’ve dreaded terminals, luggage, packed traveling bags and the smell of perfume musty and stuck on an empty room. They bitterly remind me I am back to zero. All the sweet words and happy moments gone to my memory box only to be stored and remembered. It sucks.

I so believe I have separation anxiety disorder that sporadically leads me to self-destruction whenever something itches. A lot of things can trigger my listing sanity which is like a brittle flask waiting to be stepped on by passing strangers. I’d rather lock myself in an isolated room, frozen and let my mind do the wondering than wander outside and have somebody leave me. Maybe that’s why I badly needed distractions from external forces that could pull me out from my imaginary shelter.

And yes, I am back to zero. This four-cornered, staled sanctuary used to be mine and my sister’s, then mine, then ours. And now, mine again. Like a long lost friend, it stood in front of me as if waiting for a hug. I could only glance at its barren walls that have once been exploited with newspapers, campy posters and artworks. Peculiar how it felt different to have it back again after the hasty transformation it so needed for a new arrival. The rush was stupefying and silly how I thought it would stay forever that way. But tonight, my own room is mocking me with the secrets it contained, the tears it has witnessed, the ecstasy that has many times banged its wall and of the life enclosed within. And I can’t stomach to sleep on my old, overly soft bed. Not tonight. It only reminds me I am so alone now. I’d rather sleep in my mother’s room where I can comfortably curl up like a fetus in distress and let regression shot me a fleeting source of ease.

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