As a child I hid in a wardrobe.
I could hear the traffic in the steamy city streets below, though I felt safe where I was. This was Jo'burg.
I had a book or a comic. I had a pillow. I had a blanket. I was dressed in school clothes, and wasn't where I was supposed to be. Yet I had pretended to go, but instead closed the door loudly, had hid and waited for her to leave. And that "her" fills me with fear and sick and dread but also sadness. And now I'm a child again, and I want to hide again..
I hid in the darkness, away from prying eyes. I don't like eyes, and I don't like attention.
In my work I've tried several times to climb out of the wardrobe, yet I always seem to end up there again.
So I'm climbing out now and will try to not go back in there. And there are going to be lots of eyes so I had better get used to it.
by Paul Sinclair
This journal confronts childhood trauma, adult PTSD and anxiety disorder. There are also experiential themes of ACOA (being an adult child of an alcoholic).