[Trigger warning; Self Harm]
I’m trying to sleep.
But the door is also in the same place it would be if I was at my parents. Open enough to let in light from the hallway, or to let my cat out in the middle of the night, but not open enough that anyone can see me while I sleep.
Not that it ever mattered at my parents. Regardless of the weather I slept in full long-sleeved clothing, with the duvet packed in around me so that nothing showed.
I didn’t want anyone to see the scars and cuts accumulating on my skin.
(One time they did see and I was held down on the bed, kicking and screaming, as my clothing was lifted and I was examined. It was humiliating and painful.)
Not that any of that matters here.
But it’s taken a lot of years for me to be able to sleep exposed. Even when it’s warm.
And sometimes I still can’t.
I make up stories in my head as I try to sleep. In the stories, I’m normally being saved from something. Because being saved means I am safe.
Feeling safe is something that doesn’t happen very often.
I don’t think I’ve ever admitted that to anyone, because it feels too much like a weakness.
Sometimes it doesn’t work, and I can’t sleep because I can’t feel worthy of feeling safe.
Tonight’s one of those nights.