Childhood Trauma August 31, 2002 - 2:16 p.m.

It’s been incredibly hot. I feel nauseas. I can’t get comfortable, which as you may remember is a HUGE issue for me. I’ve been up and down the stairs enough to have lost weight for two obese people. Not to mention all the pounds I’ve sweated off by now, just by simply sitting in the heat.

I want to open a window. Just one single window to relieve the stuffy house. I want to let the fresh clean air in to dance and mingle with the old stale air. Let the breeze flutter over my face and tangle my hair. Tickle my arms and legs. Whisper lullabies in my ear.

I want to open a window. But I can’t.

The moment I may try, there will be faces in it. Faces glaring with violating eyes. Faces intruding on my pretty little fantasy. Faces painted to look like things I’ve never seen. Faces that hurt. Faces that scare. Faces that make small children hide under the blankets and cry out for their mommies at night. Faces leaving marks on the glass.

I’d rather bear the heat and hide from the faces.

Unless anyone has a spare sledgehammer I could borrow.

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