My mind is composed of hundreds of doors. Some are locked tight with chains, others are plastered in caution tape — and there are even some I don’t yet know exist. A few stand wide open; those are the ones I often wander through, allowing myself to live in the illusion of calm and openness. But in reality, there’s so much of me I’ve hidden just to survive.
I think about the nights I spent crying while my parents fought. The crushing sensation when, time and time again, the people who were supposed to lift me up pushed me down. The relationships I’ve lost because life had its way — or the ones I stayed in for far too long, betraying myself in doing so. The family I once had now feels, with the years between us, like a dream I only half-remember.
I imagine myself walking through this space. The air turns uneasy as I approach the locked doors. Warmth and light seep from the ones I frequent — the familiar glow inviting me to linger. Some appear and disappear each time I visit; others remain unlocked, merely closed, but the darkness beyond them keeps me away. Next time, I tell myself, while I continue reaching for all the best parts of me instead of daring to explore the rest.
My mind is composed of hundreds of rooms. Some I’ve never dared to look at again since the locks appeared. Some big and open, others so tiny it’s hard to believe there’s anything inside — or that I could fit through. Most are invisible to me. I’ve locked them all away, and because of that, I lie to myself about knowing who I am.
Dust gathers on knobs left untouched, while others creak open from years of neglect. A few appear merely as archways, quietly welcoming me in. They are all a part of me. And as another year of my life begins, I finally understand that even though I’m filled with bad rooms, avoiding them doesn’t make them cease to exist.
So, I do the work now. With every uncomfortable conversation, a chain disappears, the door grows larger, and sometimes it even opens. Still, there are moments I’m too scared to linger for long. Yet with every visit, I find another puzzle piece, no matter how small. I see myself more clearly — I accept myself and my past — and I begin to understand what I need to do to complete the picture.
I am composed of hundreds of rooms. All of them revealing themselves to me slowly now. Some I plan to lounge in, soaking up the warmth of good memories; others, I only hope to unlock — to peek through the crack and better understand myself.
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