It Is In The Doing

I know what she thinks I do in the bathroom when I take a little too long,
when I'm a little too quiet.
After all, I'm a healthy teenager with access to the internet, what else could I be doing?
She knocks on the door and asks, "Hey, what are you doing?"
Smile, my dear reader.
Chuckle a little.
Sometimes she's right.

But sometimes... Sometimes I'm on the floor or pressed hard against the wall, my heart a little too fast, my breath a little too quick... my chest a little too tight as I try to keep the sound of steadily falling tears from echoing beyond the door. As I try to keep pretences to the outside world that I do not cry, that nothing hurts me. That always, always, always, I do not fall to the madness of emotions. I have no control of my life but dammit, I am in control of myself.

But every now and then the rigid hold of apathy breaks and I am reduced to this. Crying in a place where no one will hear my tears. Where no one will hear how desperate I am. How broken.

Broken seems like such an inadequate word. I am the incomplete disjointed pieces of myself, blindly grasping for anything to hold my being together. Thread, sinew, super glue, spit and laughter. Music, words, ink and madness. Anything. Anything to keep from falling apart. Anything to keep on living.

One time after a particularly nasty fight, I got out of the bathroom, I was dry-eyed but still sniffing, wiping snot from my nose. Quietly, she handed me a glass of warm water and a tablet of vitamin C. Gently, she reprimanded me for not wearing enough layers and told me to be careful of sick people. She let me sleep early and gave me a kiss on my head.

She thought I had a cold.

Other times, I am writing. Poems and stories that I store in the deepest parts of my phone's notes. Reining in my wild, tumultuous thoughts into tangible words. Taming the mad beasts of my mind into complex worlds and new characters. During those times I am leaping off cliffhangers and spinning on plot twists. I am sewing shadows into labyrinths and playing light upon the sharp steel of my heroes' and heroines' blades.

During those moments, I am free.

One time I took a little too long and she noticed I had my phone with me as I got out. This led to practically a full-scale investigation of my contact list, my Inbox and my call log. And for the rest of the day we played 20 questions. Was I secretly talking to anyone? Texting? E-mail? Facebook? Who was this girl? Who was that? Why did so and so call you in the afternoon of that day three weeks ago? Has she ever met this person? Is he and she a girl or a guy? When did I meet them? Where did I meet them? Oh my god, am I still communicating with this useless person?

What am I hiding from her??!


..... Privacy is not a product of shame. It's not about doing something bad or morally wrong. It's simply an offshoot of the very basic human need and human right to be able to live your own life. Privacy is keeping certain little things to yourself so that you can remind yourself that you are your own person.

I wish I could tell her that.

Other times, I take too long simply because I need to get away from her. Even for just a few moments. I need to pretend that my life is my own. That anytime I can grab my life and hurl it into its future.

I am tired. Not of life, not of living. Not even of her. But of the lies I weave just so that every now and then, I could feel... alive.

She's knocking now.

What.
Am.
I.
Doing?