Keeping life clandestine until I am unaccompanied
Recently I’ve realized my lack of privacy. Though it came to me as no surprise since from the age of 4 I’ve been suffocated in closed diminutive spaces. When I was just 4 years old I was evicted from the place I called home. It was a 2 story home that had 6 different people’s lives basically in it. Everything was taken all the expensive furniture and valuable and meaningful things of all sort. I had in fact no idea, being the 4 year old naïve little girl that I was though from there it went all downhill; my dad had a stroke as we lived in hotels that we ended up not even paying for since we had money problems. We didn’t have food to eat so we would take steal food from the lobby to eat for dinner. Then we moved miles away….reasons why? Well, since we probably wrecked every hotel in that state and my dad was absolutely penniless since he was the only one that worked in my family and was sick. We runaway like fugitives and went to live with my grandparents. For 2 years I lived in a little minuscule room with my parents as my other sister slept on the floor. My brother slept on the downstairs couch. I was closer to my cousins and non immediate family. Though individually, I’ve never had possession of a room. Though now I have moved apart from my Grandparents home. I share a room with my two sisters and though the room is a master bedroom and it’s much bigger, I feel like it’s cluttered and gets filthy easily. It is too noisy and lacks space. It’s usually always occupied and gives off a terrible feeling of anxiousness. Or may I say the people always in it. Either way I always appreciate and do well with the little time I get to myself. I usually don’t agrue with my older sister of 25 years when to turn off the light or TV. I had lost that control when I moved here again. Though my privacy to what is on my side of the room is very sacred and significant to me. My folder with writing and my most inter secrets, stories, and fictional stories that I write are all concealed in that one writing space. Some things I’d rather not repeat to anyone because some times I write everything I have ever wanted to tell people to there faces but still cower in my fear as my secrets lay under my bed as if next my bible. My feelings again concealed as if I had everything to hide and all I was, was just living a complete lie. I don’t know why I still to this day have a great fear of someone reading my private things. I am paranoid and sleepless, I am too secretive and too aware of what I am that I scares me. I am afraid….
