laying down your armor
you’ve kept on your armor because stripping it would force you to face the reality of your situation.
fourteen. a small house, often empty but for you and a violent schizophrenic. his bedroom feet away from yours. his own feet pacing the corridor at all hours like a tiger in a cage. on edge.
sitting at the dining table. cramped space. you choose the chair on the outside, body facing side on, ready to flee at the sound of his wooden chair scraping against the tiles.
piercing blue eyes staring at you. not for a moment, not for a minute. minutes at a time. if you meet them for an instant, you’re met with immediate aggression. you keep your head down.
finish half your dinner as quickly as you can - wait to be excused from the table. it rarely happens and you’re forced to sit there, trembling, right foot tapping violently, waiting for others to finish their meals.
retreat to your bedroom. try to do homework, but the constant movement outside your shut door keeps you vigilant. you read instead, or memorize capitals - things that don’t matter but let you keep your ears up.
in bed - the dark is suffocating, deep, unknown. you keep one foot out from the covers and both arms above. you sleep an hour or two at a time, wake shaking.
one afternoon. the corridor. short, narrow, thick cornflower-blue carpet - it itches the fronts of your soles. you walk to the living room. he appears. you don’t shrink to the wall, but embrace the numbness in your body, keep your shoulders up and your eyes distant.
you’ve donned your armor. you’ve donned it with intent. you’re untouchable.
the next thirty years you keep it on. as the years pass, you forget it was a conscious decision. you forget you’re wearing it.
last week. deep meditation. exploring the physical manifestations of survival and fear. those eyes and that coiled spring in your groin surface. you hold - your body convulses with release for minutes. you dry heave repeatedly.
wearing armor amplifies sound - dings reverberate through your skull. breathing and movement are wet and heavy. the dark becomes oblivion.
it protected you, but now it blunts you. it defended you, but that defense turned you mean. the restriction made you bitter as you watched others feel and move freely.
but the armor is coming off, and you see your situation now for what it is. mundane work. remote village. living alone. opportunities foregone.
you understand life isn’t going to lunge at you and punch you in the face for no reason, or hold a knife to your mother’s throat while you watch helplessly.
you can make your own choices now.
you choose to bare yourself.