This, as all of Door Girl, is a fictional piece of writing with bits of truth woven in to the fabric of it. Thank you for reading.
Part 22
Part 22
Even though I was getting
everything I thought I wanted, my heart was slowly dying more and more.
I didn’t realize it,
but the 23-year old I had become was a collage of all those people from her
childhood. The little girl watching Tom and Jerry. The middle schooler who was
abandoned at thirteen. The kneeling girl in rice. The girl who could never,
ever be good enough no matter how hard she tried.
There were Sunday mornings
for church, school functions, mommy and me groups, potato salads…all of it. I
did all of it. Because I still believed in the fantasy that the kidnapper could
fall in love with me, flaws and all. That the people who bore down on me and
saw all of my scars would be won over by how amazingly well I could do
everything just right.
The vines, the damn
vines, were multiplying and there was nothing I could do to stop it. The roots
had voices that whispered in my veins, “You are your mother. Leave. Pull that
car in the garage and shut the doors. Your wrists are beautiful and the knives
are sharp.” The voices wouldn’t stop so I checked myself in a mental hospital.
Why did it seem like
all the sane people were on the inside and all the insane were locked out?
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