I’m In the Closet
I feel like I should clarify something. The name of my blog has nothing to do with my sexuality, but more to do with my happy place and how the closet has played a pretty big part in my life.
In my youth you could say I was a little rebellious. Rebellious in the sense that instead of sneaking at night to read dirty magazines or scary stories, I hid in my closet to read V.C. Andrew novels…which was pretty smutty in and of itself.
On any given night during the summer months, I could be found in my tiny closet, sitting on a salmon pink plastic clothes hamper, delving into the taboo stories of an author long dead. I devoured book after book about an orphan thrown into a world of wealth and molesting older men. Sometime around 3am I would hear my mother opening the creaking closet door, and she would pop her head into my makeshift sanctuary.
“What are you doing, you need to be in bed,” mom would scold.
“Nothing, I was just finishing this paragraph,” I’d reply.
I slammed the book shut and raced to my bed.
I’m not really sure to this day why I thought she wouldn’t notice the glaring light shining from under the door when she came in to check on me. See kids, that’s what parenting looks like, observing what your kids are and aren’t inhaling into their mushy brains.
Once I grew older and went off to college, I could read into the early morning hours to my hearts’ content. Only it usually consisted of chapters on human sexuality or economics. Who knew the reasons we bone could be so boring.
The night before my college graduation, I took refuge once again in my walk-in closet that my loans provided me at a hefty interest rate.
I had wandered over to a neighbor’s last ditch party in an apartment I had never visited before.
I took shots, hugged strangers and rested on their couch, contemplating my future as an adult. Then, they brought out the pot. Meh, that’s cool I thought, not my thing, but I was still pretty comfortable.
But then they brought out the cocaine. Amongst the party goers; was a girl who wanted to be an elementary school teacher, a business major, and myself, a social work major. They cut the powder on a little mirror and I felt a sense of dread. This was not a situation or place I wanted to be in.
I complained about explosive diarrhea and left the party.
I went back to my empty apartment, grabbed a pillow and a blanket and dragged it into the closet. I sat there for a few hours, expecting McGruff the Crime Dog to come bursting through the door at any minute. He would tell me what an awful person I was because now I was addicted to heroine and crack.
Eventually, I drifted off to sleep until I heard a knock at the door. It was my parents and grandparents there to pick me up for graduation.
The ceremony went off without a hitch and things faded into the gray scale that is life.
Fast forward eight years, I now own my own home roughly 3 miles from downtown Fort Wayne, IN. It’s mostly quiet though I couldn’t tell you what most of my neighbors look like.
One neighbor I could pick out of a lineup is Frasier.
Frasier is a tiny dog that causes me huge headaches. Most of the time he whines and cries and I pet him through the fence. At 7 am he can be found barking at birds and generally being an asshole.
In order to get away from his incessant barking, I once again drug my blanket and pillow into my closet and plopped into the dark cave of a closet.
Soon, I heard my boyfriend, Jackson, get up and plod his way to the bathroom to brush his teeth. He eventually realized he didn’t know where I was and started calling my name. He moved to the guest bedroom, his tone a little bit more shrill, at the thought of my unexplained absence. There was no explanation that could ever exist that would indicate why I wasn’t still in bed before 11 am.
“I’m in the closet,” I yelled, half awake.
“What are you doing in the closet,” he asked.
“Sleeping,” I replied.
“Why are you sleeping in the closet,” he said.
“Fucking Frasier, that’s why I’m in the closet,” I screamed.