I wake up because something hurts.
It’s the light. It’s so bright it slices across my eyes like knives. I squeeze them shut, but I can still feel the light. I don’t remember falling asleep. My body is stiff from the weight of the blanket, but I don’t want to move yet. Not until it stops.
A door creaks.
The creaking is sharp, and it scrapes the inside of my brain. Footsteps come closer—thud, thud, thud. I try to bury my head, but the blanket is the wrong texture. It’s scratchy, like sandpaper. My hands flap on their own. I don’t want them to. But I don’t want them to stop either.
Someone says something. I know it’s words. I’ve heard those words before. But my brain won’t line them up. It’s like trying to catch falling leaves with mittens on. I know they want me to get up. I think that’s what they want.
They touch my shoulder.
Too much.
I scream. I don’t want to. But the touch burns like fire. I didn’t say they could. I didn’t say anything, but I thought it really hard.
They call me difficult. They call me uncooperative. Sometimes they talk about me like I’m not in the room. But I am. I always am. I just don’t know how to say it the way they want.
I rock back and forth. That helps. It keeps the bad feelings in a bubble so they don’t leak out. My fingers go to my favorite spot on the blanket—the corner with the soft tag. That tag is a whole planet I can live in. It doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t lie.
They ask again. Louder this time. My hands hit my ears, and I start to cry. It’s not because I’m sad. It’s because everything hurts. Everything is too much. And no one waits.
Later, I go outside. The wind feels good. A bird chirps, and that sound is beautiful. Like sunlight you can hear. I smile and hum the same few notes I always do. They feel good in my mouth. Safe.
Someone says I’m not aware.
But I am.
I am aware of everything.
More than you can possibly imagine.
