In My Old Bedroom
1/1
I don’t know how it happened. Or why. I just know that it did.
At first I thought I was dreaming. Because it had that dream-like sort of feel. I don’t know how to explain it other than like that. It was confusing. The feeling of being transported to somewhere long ago was so overwhelming that how could it be anything other than a dream? What struck me was how real and unreal it was simultaneously.
I found myself standing in my old bedroom. Someone had put all the furniture back in it’s right place. Where there now normally stood a crib, my old desk stood collecting dust as it normally used to. My brother’s old computer that had been given to me, was in sleep mode. The desk was overflowing with magazines that I never really liked and old toys I was too sentimental to throw out.
Two boxes of legos and playmobiles was hidden behind the door, and there were two book shelves instead of just one. It looked exactly like it used to when I was eleven. Green curtains and everything. I wondered what had happened, and was surprised as to how calm I was keeping.
There was an uncomfortable feeling of this room. I never really liked it, and I had done a lot of sad things in this room.
As I stood there, I thought about how sad I used to be back when I had this room. This room carried so many secrets too big for an eleven year old. It was stained with tears and blood. Not yet though, I realised. Not yet. This room was still innocent. It hadn’t happened yet.
I saw myself coming through the door, closing and locking it. I was young. I was a child. An eleven year old child, me, just walked through the door. Then I saw myself. There was confusion across my face. “Who are you?” My voice was a lot higher than I had expected. I suppose I didn’t force it at this point. Not yet.
“I…” I didn’t know how to explain myself to this child. How could anybody? I knew that I at least couldn’t tell the truth. I wasn’t even sure what the truth was at this point. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to hurt you,” I said finally, figuring that might be the best thing to say.
My younger self stood with the door to his back. His hair was longer than I remembered it. I kept my distance. “I just want to talk to you. Don’t tell mum. Or dad.”
“Who are you?”
I cleared my throat, and tried to think of a good explanation. I still didn’t know how I was so calm. It was as if my body knew what to do, but my head couldn’t quite keep up yet. I looked at myself. My arms weren’t covered. I was still just a child. “I’m just somebody who cares about you.”
The younger me wasn't convinced. His brows were furrowed and his arms were defensively crossed in front of his chest. “What do you want?” He took a short breath. “Can you just leave?”
“Yes. I just…” I took a slight pause. I tried to make eye contact with myself, but the child wouldn’t. He was scared, I think, and I understood that. I was surprised that he still hadn’t left the room, ran off. Perhaps he thought I would hurt him if he tried, and that made me sad. “Please don’t be scared. I don’t want to hurt you. I just want to tell you something.”
He didn’t say anything, but I think he gave me a small nod. I took that as a good sign. I took a few steps closer, but still kept a distance. “I know that you’re feeling bad right now. I know you’re going through a difficult time, and I know that it feels like it’s never going to stop. But…” I don’t know why I felt so emotional at that point. Or maybe I do, I just didn’t expect it.
The younger version of myself still kept quiet, but sometimes he would look at me. He was playing with his uncomfortably long hair. I knew he hated it, but I also knew he was to scared to cut it off. What would they think?
“What you’re feeling is normal. You’re not a freak.”
My choice of words made him look me directly in the eye. “I never said I’m a freak!”
“Neither did I.”
He didn’t reply, so I kept going, all the while trying to keep eye contact with myself. “I’ve been where you are now, and please… Please don’t ever think it’s okay to hurt yourself. You’re strong and you can get through this. Don’t do something you’ll regret.”
There was a long silence. Neither I nor my younger self knew what to say. Eventually the young me took a breath. “Are you… me?”
I didn’t know what to say to that. Was I? Or was I a completely different person now? Looking at myself it was difficult to think that that had ever been me. But it had. And I was. “Yes.”
The eleven year old child walked over to me and wrapped his arms around me. I found myself standing in my old bedroom crying. There was a crib where my desk used to stand, and there was only one book shelf.
I don’t know how it happened. Or why. I just know that it did.
It helped.
At first I thought I was dreaming. Because it had that dream-like sort of feel. I don’t know how to explain it other than like that. It was confusing. The feeling of being transported to somewhere long ago was so overwhelming that how could it be anything other than a dream? What struck me was how real and unreal it was simultaneously.
I found myself standing in my old bedroom. Someone had put all the furniture back in it’s right place. Where there now normally stood a crib, my old desk stood collecting dust as it normally used to. My brother’s old computer that had been given to me, was in sleep mode. The desk was overflowing with magazines that I never really liked and old toys I was too sentimental to throw out.
Two boxes of legos and playmobiles was hidden behind the door, and there were two book shelves instead of just one. It looked exactly like it used to when I was eleven. Green curtains and everything. I wondered what had happened, and was surprised as to how calm I was keeping.
There was an uncomfortable feeling of this room. I never really liked it, and I had done a lot of sad things in this room.
As I stood there, I thought about how sad I used to be back when I had this room. This room carried so many secrets too big for an eleven year old. It was stained with tears and blood. Not yet though, I realised. Not yet. This room was still innocent. It hadn’t happened yet.
I saw myself coming through the door, closing and locking it. I was young. I was a child. An eleven year old child, me, just walked through the door. Then I saw myself. There was confusion across my face. “Who are you?” My voice was a lot higher than I had expected. I suppose I didn’t force it at this point. Not yet.
“I…” I didn’t know how to explain myself to this child. How could anybody? I knew that I at least couldn’t tell the truth. I wasn’t even sure what the truth was at this point. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to hurt you,” I said finally, figuring that might be the best thing to say.
My younger self stood with the door to his back. His hair was longer than I remembered it. I kept my distance. “I just want to talk to you. Don’t tell mum. Or dad.”
“Who are you?”
I cleared my throat, and tried to think of a good explanation. I still didn’t know how I was so calm. It was as if my body knew what to do, but my head couldn’t quite keep up yet. I looked at myself. My arms weren’t covered. I was still just a child. “I’m just somebody who cares about you.”
The younger me wasn't convinced. His brows were furrowed and his arms were defensively crossed in front of his chest. “What do you want?” He took a short breath. “Can you just leave?”
“Yes. I just…” I took a slight pause. I tried to make eye contact with myself, but the child wouldn’t. He was scared, I think, and I understood that. I was surprised that he still hadn’t left the room, ran off. Perhaps he thought I would hurt him if he tried, and that made me sad. “Please don’t be scared. I don’t want to hurt you. I just want to tell you something.”
He didn’t say anything, but I think he gave me a small nod. I took that as a good sign. I took a few steps closer, but still kept a distance. “I know that you’re feeling bad right now. I know you’re going through a difficult time, and I know that it feels like it’s never going to stop. But…” I don’t know why I felt so emotional at that point. Or maybe I do, I just didn’t expect it.
The younger version of myself still kept quiet, but sometimes he would look at me. He was playing with his uncomfortably long hair. I knew he hated it, but I also knew he was to scared to cut it off. What would they think?
“What you’re feeling is normal. You’re not a freak.”
My choice of words made him look me directly in the eye. “I never said I’m a freak!”
“Neither did I.”
He didn’t reply, so I kept going, all the while trying to keep eye contact with myself. “I’ve been where you are now, and please… Please don’t ever think it’s okay to hurt yourself. You’re strong and you can get through this. Don’t do something you’ll regret.”
There was a long silence. Neither I nor my younger self knew what to say. Eventually the young me took a breath. “Are you… me?”
I didn’t know what to say to that. Was I? Or was I a completely different person now? Looking at myself it was difficult to think that that had ever been me. But it had. And I was. “Yes.”
The eleven year old child walked over to me and wrapped his arms around me. I found myself standing in my old bedroom crying. There was a crib where my desk used to stand, and there was only one book shelf.
I don’t know how it happened. Or why. I just know that it did.
It helped.