Hypnophobia

It’s glass shattering on the kitchen floor, it’s doors slamming shut and hearing his footsteps as he walks out the door again. It’s being unable to sleep because your step mother is screaming in her closet, it’s watching her dial his number all night, it’s wondering just how long he’ll be gone this time.
 
It’s being woken up at 6:00 am to her screaming, “Call him!” It’s crying into his voicemail, begging him to come home but after a few unsuccessful calls, she leaves while punching another hole in the wall. It’s the sound of plates shattering on the tile floor, it’s hearing her scream as she smashes her phone. It’s being thankful your Pocahontas plate was made to be, unbreakable. It’s hiding in your closet until the morning comes, it’s hoping she’s passed out on the kitchen floor. It’s being scared for your life but never saying a word.
 
It’s waiting by your bedroom window while most children are fast asleep, listening for a car that won’t ever pull up. It’s staying awake for days because you’re too afraid to fall asleep, questioning at nine years old if God was ever truly listening. “I promise I’ll get out of the pool when I’m told.” “I promise I’ll do my homework if you just bring my daddy home.”
 
It’s being too young to have lost your innocence, it’s praying to a God you’re not sure you believe in, making promises you can’t yet understand. It’s hoping there’s someone up there because if there isn't, you haven’t told a soul your deepest secret. You need to believe someone listened.
 
It’s the memories that turn into baggage, the kind which can’t be helped by that syringe, the kind that make you just another one of the damaged, broken and damned. It’s the luggage you struggle to carry on your back, breaking your bones and causing your legs to snap.
 
It’s finally seeing his car parked in the driveway, it’s wanting to cry and beg him to stay. It’s wishing you could tell him you don’t feel safe because the man standing in your kitchen stalks you like prey. It’s your best kept secret, it’s keeping your mouth shut and watching, as all your baggage piles up.
 
It’s the nightmares that consume you when you’re forced to fall asleep, taking you back to that cold garage floor with cobwebs on the ceiling. It’s being too afraid to scream, it’s listening to the sound of the refrigerator humming, it’s the overwhelming smell of chlorine. It’s feeling sick to your stomach, it’s doing your best not to vomit while his greasy hand insures you stay quiet.
 
It’s wanting to claw at your own skin, to scratch off every layer until you feel free again. It’s ten thousand showers, it’s water so hot that it burns your flesh and turns your skin bright red, never hot enough to burn away those images or wash off that lingering scent of him. It’s crying in the shower surrounded by steam, sitting on the floor with your head to your knees, wishing you were dead before you've even reached your teens, while all your friend’s were playing with Barbie’s.
 
It’s being forced to trade sunshine for rain and beaches for snow. It’s still smelling his stench a thousand miles from home, it’s being forever cursed to remember the smell of his cologne. It’s seeing him everywhere, anywhere you go and mirrored in the face of any man who dare come close.

It’s grinding your teeth, clenching your fists, breaking the skin on the palm of your hands, anxiety. It’s believing your body has been corrupted and soiled, forever unlovable and left on that cold garage floor.
 
It’s counting calories, it’s realizing there’s one thing you can control. It’s watching the weight disappear, feeling accomplished while losing your hair. It’s sick how happy being sick has made you, the weaker you become, the strong you feel.
 
It’s being tormented by flashbacks and night terrors over a decade later, it’s running from your past until your arms have no veins left, until your blood has been drained and poison is all that’s left. It’s living with an aching hole in your chest, filled with fear and constant panic, it’s being forced to see his face on the nights your eyes close.
 
It’s living the rest of your life standing on a scale, watching as the number drops, waiting until you finally reach zero, until your heart finally, stops.