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The Real Monsters Beneath My Bed

 3 years ago
source link: https://medium.com/age-of-awareness/the-real-monsters-beneath-my-bed-3fa4f5756012
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The Real Monsters Beneath My Bed

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Photo by Laura Chouette on Unsplash

I screamed for help from a place within my body that I didn’t yet know existed. Dawn seeped in from behind the honeycomb shades, illuminating my childhood bedroom with a soft yellow glow. A new day was just beginning, but life as I knew it was over forever. I reached for the lamp on my nightstand in a hurried attempt to cast light upon my fears.

I had just discovered monsters under my bed.

My bedroom door burst open with the sound of a mother’s protection. Through panicked tears, I explained to her that I had found hard evidence of at least one mouse living in my room. Last night, there had been a coordinated attack that resulted in devastating destruction just beneath my head while I slumbered. In their taunting terrorization of my personal belongings, they had identified the one item I cared most about and left it utterly irreparable.

I raised my arms to show her the irrefutable damage made to the edges of my baby blanket. “See,” I ran my finger along the once-soft texture of the curved outer seams and pointed to several gaping holes left in the surface. “They chewed right through it. The edges are ruined and the holes are getting bigger!” I hung my head in a defeated shame, sorry that I had failed to protect something so precious.

My mom gently took the blanket from me, inspecting its unstable condition. She then spent a quiet moment inspecting my sheets and carefully lifting my pillows. With a nurturing smile, she held tight to her chest the remaining fabrics of my innocence. “I don’t think it’s mice, sweetheart. It’s just time.”

She sat on the edge of my bed and ran a corner of the blanket between her middle and index fingers. “This blanket has seen a lot of wonderful years and survived almost a decade of love and cuddles. This happens to something that has been well loved and well washed.” She put a hand on my shoulder and placed the blanket on my lap. Staring down at my childhood comfort, my heart fought against what I knew to be fairly sound logic. I refused to believe that the wear and tear of my most cherished possession was the result of anything other than vindictive vermin beneath my pillow.

It seemed catastrophic that something as seemingly innocent as time and gentle as love could be so destructive.

After much debate about the durability of fabrics and the unlikely scenario that my devastating find was a hit job, I finally gave in to the reality that my baby blanket was simply tired. Though the cartoon bears still celebrated new life with bundles of balloons and juggling routines, they appeared well worn and in need of rest. I took a moment’s pause to mourn the once-intact edges, folded it with somber care, and tucked it back beneath my pillow where my warm hands would find its cooled surface later that night as I lulled myself to sleep.

Nearly two decades later that very blanket would be rediscovered one morning, tucked behind loungewear in a top drawer where it had been thoughtfully stashed during renovations. I lifted it to my chest as though it might begin to unravel. It was silly to think that a single blanket could see so much life: new beginnings and tough endings, travel and transitions, relationships and loneliness, pride and devastation. Yet as I grew and strengthened, it had become worn and stained.

A moment of heartache revealed the subtle yellowing of a once-bright white surface and a few more holes making their appearance. The gentle fabric that used to embrace my entire being now barely wrapped itself stiffly around my shoulders. I held it close to my face, the fresh lavender scent now turned stale. The edges still whispered of an imaginative infestation. I simultaneously yearned to preserve what remains of that beloved piece of childhood and at the same time place it back under my pillow, where it would once again take on the burden of a well-lived life.

I suppose this blanket did far more than console my tears and comfort my worries; it demonstrated, through its slow disintegration, the melancholic wonders of existence.

One day, like that withered blanket, I will wake up and look in the mirror only to realize that age has made itself known to the soft curves of my figure and the surface of my skin. I will identify each stain and imperfection and try to recall where it might have come from; some I will know well, others will catch me by surprise. I will realize that it is too late to preserve what was once flawless and that there’s not enough time left to make repairs. Yet, I hope I might smile, knowing that those deepening lines and darkening circles are only evidence of a worthwhile and well-loved existence.

May the slightly tattered resemblance of a thing once young and filled with dreams, be a stunning and joyful discovery, devoid of fear of the unknown.

When the day comes that I recognize my own edges beginning to fray, I hope not to blame the imaginary mice that live beneath my bed, but rather a life well-lived.

e.


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