When I was 12 I lived in the same house I do now. Let’s not settle on this information, but on how I was back then. At twelve, I had only lived in this house for two years. Since I moved in at 10 years old, I’d had trouble fitting in with the kids who’d known each other since preschool. I’d really only moved to the other side of my small city, but apparently that was enough to make me the “new” kid in my fifth grade class. Middle school was no exception.
So, after a day of being ignored or straight out antagonized by the kids at my middle school (with very few exceptions), my home was my sanctuary. As soon as I got home, I’d go straight to my room. I found comfort in my day bed and the purple flowers stenciled on the doors to my closet. It was the first time I’d had a room to myself, and after two years, I still hadn’t quite gotten used to it. I plugged in my tiny radio and turned on the local rock station before sinking into the world of Harry Potter.
Now, a lot has changed. I’m still in that same room, but after eleven years I’ve found friends I can trust, and I don’t need to escape into a fantasy world to sustain me. Every once in a while, I still find comfort in the stenciled flowers, but only when I’ve reached an all time low. I’ve just found that my lows are happening much less often than before.