Living with a trigger

Image Description: A dark, narrow hallway is illuminated by a slightly open door at the end, casting a glowing pink-red light that spills into the space. From the shadows, a distorted figure emerges, reaching toward the door, its long, branch-like fingers wrapping and tapping against the frame. The figure is shadowy and sketch-like, with scratched white eyes and a sinister, almost playful smile. At the center of its chest is a broken heart, roughly drawn, standing out against its dark form. Wispy, trailing shapes stretch from its body, blending into the darkness behind it. In the bottom left corner, the title appears in rough, handwritten text: “LIVING WITH A TRIGGER.”

When I walk into a space, I sense it. An energy shifts when you are near– the chaos is brought by a single step inside. 

I like being alone in my room. It’s quiet, cozy, and comfortable— an atmosphere I was never used to, being a child in a big family. I come home, and I know it’s waiting for me. The safety of the lights that flicker on as I step into my room, my desk filled with unfinished projects, and my bed crowded with stuffed animals— I am engulfed by the energy my room brings me. 

So why does it feel different now? The energy has shifted, and I feel uncomfortable. The same lights violently flashed on, my desk cluttered with miscellaneous items without meaning, and my bed felt bare. Why did it change? Why don’t I feel safe? It’s as if anyone can walk in at any moment and deteriorate the energy-drained room. 

I left my room the same, with an open door waiting for me to return. That may be the problem: I had left the door open. I closed it, but still, the feeling prevailed with a knock on the door. 

I didn’t answer.

My door remains closed, but my light welcomed my return. Maybe that’s the problem: I left the light on. I turn it off, but still, the feeling prevails when you open the door.

And you enter once more.

My door is closed, and my light is off, but my desk still has many items to look forward to upon my return. Maybe that’s the problem: I left things out. I put my things away, leaving my desk bare, but still, the feeling prevails when you’re inside rummaging through my things.

My door is closed, my lights are off, and my desk is bare, but my stuffed animals and my comfortable bed still await me. Maybe that’s the problem: I’m surrounded by comfort. As I try to hide my comfort, the feeling is still prevailing. I’m left in a locked door, a dark room with nothing around. I’m left in a place I didn’t know and trapped in a prison of my unfortunate design. 

Why did I do all this? What am I scared of? Nothing has happened to me; I’m being paranoid. I returned my stuffed animals, left my unfinished projects on my desk, and turned back on the light, but I couldn’t open the door.

I’m scared to open the door.

Why? 

I’m okay. 

I’m safe. 

Right?

I left the door open; I left my room to live in the outside world after many months of closing the door and locking myself inside. 

I returned with a bright smile and was ready for the comforting energy to welcome me back. When I walked in, my door was broken, the light didn’t work, and my items were missing. My bed was filled with dying stuffed animals and ripped-up blankets. Who would do this? Why is the energy here so different? 

A door slams open. There it was—my demon in physical form. They screamed, they cried, they threw things, they paced back and forth, they pulled their hair out, and they hit the door. I saw it—the energy shift, the chaos being created. I would never escape it. You came into my room, you destroyed my sanctuary, and you made me feel so unsafe.

I’m scared of you.

A single door slam is enough to make me fight to hold back tears. I wonder if you know what you have done to me? I lock my doors now; I stay as quiet as a mouse under my ripped blankets, surrounded by darkness and a room laid bare. 

Please stop.

I’m begging you.

How am I supposed to live like this? I want to stop crying myself to sleep. I want to stop shaking when I hear a door knock. I want to stop forcing a smile on my face to appease your angry words. I just want you to stop coming into my room.

Is that so much to ask? I’ll stay in here, please don’t approach. I know you’re outside, waiting, watching, listening. 

I hope one day you will see what you’ve done to me. A shell of a pers-

room.

A shell of a room.