I Found It

The object lies there, and I need to know what's in it.

There it is. Where I find it all the time. It sits on the floor waiting for me.

We walk around it like it offends us. Some people reach for it, but they can’t build up the courage to pick it up. To pin it to ourselves and breathe in the truth of what it holds.

Sometimes I think what it holds is a secret about me that I don’t need to be seen. Other times, I want it to hide me. To hide what I hate about myself. To hide the one problem about me that nothing else can seem to hide.

I’m supported by the chair but trapped by the walls. The wood is breathable, the concrete is suffocating. The eyes on me judge. They try to understand why I’m like this. They ask why I choose to suffer through this.

They think I’m crazy. They think something is wrong with me. I want them to tell me. To tell me why they lie, why they fake support. Why does it lie on the floor waiting for me to grab it?

Could I be the first to open it? The first to see it. To know why it truly waits for me.

I reach for it, but the chair jerks back. “Not yet,” it seems to say. I know why it holds me back. It knows what I’m finding. It knows what I am now. It just doesn’t think I’m ready.

I sit back again. I wait. The chair knows what I’m thinking. The walls pretend that it’s not what others once thought, too.

I used to try to be different. I wanted to stand out. Now I grew up, and I stare at it again. It’s the same still.

I still want to grab it. To understand it. To have what I need from it.

The chair doesn’t stop me this time as I cradle the object in my hands.

It isn’t hard; it’s a soft fabric. It fits me. It hides me.

I wanted to open and understand it. But that couldn’t happen.

I needed it closed. Just on me. It changes me. In a good way.

I sit in the chair that seems to hug me. I feel protected by the cool fabric on my body and the warm wood against my back.

The walls are angry now. They want to close in on me. They want to stop me from what I’ve decided. I thought I didn’t care, but I lied to myself. I curl up in the chair.

The chair held me before, but now the splinters cut me. They break my skin and rip the fabric. They support my weight while cutting me.

The coolness is nice. Being myself is nice. Until I see how others will be.

I hide again. I’m not me to the walls. I keep the chair’s support no matter how much I bleed. The chair is the only thing I have until the world drops.

I found what’s in the binder.

It’s a coward.

Author's Note

This story is meant to explain a time in my life that I dealt with and still deal with.