Crickets

My personal journal about abuse, silence, and the architecture of trauma. Including a Psychological breakdown for understanding.

Standing with my toes at the edge of the doorway of my bedroom, I inhale. I can still smell the wallpaper paste. Mom hung pink and white flowered wallpaper on our walls. It matches the soft pink carpeting, the comforter, the curtains, the bookshelf with my stuffed animals, and the plastic butterfly decor. My sister and I share a full-sized bed. We each have a pillow Grandma made on our side of the bed. They are square, terrycloth, with yarn fringe - hers is yellow with a large yellow rose. Mine is pink, with a large pink rose on it. When she gave them to us, she said something weird. Those pillows are our “innocence,” and we should “stay that way as long as possible.” Grandma says funny stuff like that sometimes. I never know what she is talking about.