Some days I like to pretend I'm asleep. Or at least, trick my family into thinking I'm asleep. My crowded, shrinking room is feels like my own fortress, willing to protect me from the noises of the world. Recently, I've become sensitive to sounds, as a part-time optimist, I hope it's getting better. There are some days when I'm laying in bed that I know I'm not better. When I need to find the noise cancelling headphones to block the world out, or even just my family. I like to think I have some abstract reason as to why my hearing suddenly became sensitive. After all, in a dog-eat-dog world, I need to watch out for myself. However, I don't understand why the sounds of my mother eating a pear sends my hands over my ears and fingernails into my skull. Or why my father coughing and clearing his throat makes me physically sick to my stomach. My reactions were originally reserved for my father's actions. Now I'm growing as is my reaction and as is my anger. Anger leaves a nasty wreck in its wake, so I try not to lash out. Sometimes I can't keep my mouth shut, sometimes my teeth dig so far into the side of my mouth I bleed every nasty word possible. Sometimes my anger pushes so hard that I spend the afternoon heaving in the bathroom.

Some days I like to pretend the occasional warm February breeze is the breath of summer. It smells like it too. Window cracked just enough for me to stick my nose through. Recently, my sense of touch has heightened. That doesn't seem the right way to word it. Recently, my reactions to big and small events have become the same to the point that I can't tell the difference. I don't know how to handle my emotions. So much so, I'll spend months doing everything I can just to feel. Sometimes I'm so angry I pick at my skin until bleeds. Sometimes I hit the side of leg with such a constant rhythm and force, my thigh becomes flat. Sometimes I scratch my arms until they're numb because I might get rid of the skin that's no longer mine. Sometimes I pull at my hair and stab my scalp with my fingernails because I need to anchor myself down. Sometimes I sit at my window and wish things were different. Some days are good days, they're different. Some days are bad days, they're always the same. Some days, when I'm home alone, I yell and I pace and take back what I can. Some days, I don't say a word and spend hours laying in bed. Watching the world continue to move on, while I freeze time inside my fortress. My quiet, secluded fortress.