My Catharsis

Chapter One: "The Closet"

I've been thinking about all of the stuff in my closet lately. It is probably not too different from a million other closets; amid the expected clothing and shoes are shelves stacked with seasonal knick-knacks and half-used rolls of wrapping paper. These items are surrounded by dusty cartons full of old picture albums, outgrown baby shoes and bundles of greeting cards representing holidays, birthdays, anniversaries or other days worth celebrating. An assortment of dolls my mother had collected, a set of chipped dishes used in the years just after Kevin and I got married, an old lamp missing its shade, and other items of this sort. Eventually the boxes get covered by folded quilts cushioning cracked photo frames, banded stacks of old musty-smelling books and an ancient VHS player, its remote control long gone and its technology obsolete.

All of these things represent bits and pieces of a normal life, a memory-inducing collection of debris that takes up space in storage areas everywhere. Looking upon it objectively, such a stockpile makes us seem like a common, regular family. That's how I think of it, anyway. Sometimes I look around myself at the decorations in my home, the toys on the floor, the plants hanging in the sunlight, and I think of how this life must appear to an outsider. Nondescript home in an unremarkable neighborhood. Clean, not spotless, but comfortable by definition of contemporary society.

It's all a façade, for the most part, and I believe it's that way in the vast majority of the homes that fill the neighborhoods and towns and cities all over the country. People pretend to be happy, content, well-adjusted, because they understand that this is as good as it gets. Might as well accept your place in this world: you get up and go to work and come home and eat supper and pay bills and go to sleep so you can do it again tomorrow, if you're lucky. You live for the in-between moments, like taking vacations, getting married, having children, going to graduations, and the thousands of other small events people plan for and look forward to as the defining moments of their lives.

As for myself, if that was truly my life, I think I might actually be okay with it. It certainly looks as though my existence is on par with everyone else's, which is, of course, precisely how Kevin wants things.

Appearances mean more to Kevin than to most husbands, I suppose. He would never want his work acquaintances, neighbors or clients to know the truth of his life. This is why I can put on a smile that is completely convincing to anyone who doesn't truly know me.

It's possible that I am deceiving myself, too. It's convenient to tell yourself everyone is living a façade; after all, it sort of validates my own self-deception. Seriously, there have to be others in the world whose public images hide something as dark and dreadful as the existence I am trapped in. Perhaps they have managed to obtain a sense of acceptance or complacency.

I have found myself standing in the doorway to my walk-in closet a few times recently, not knowing how long I had been standing in one spot. I was just staring at the neatly stored collection of things that used to be important to me. The material must have mattered to me; isn't that why I've kept all of it here?

For weeks, I repeatedly told myself that I was thinking of organizing the closet. I'd be cleaning out the unused clothing so that I could donate some things to Goodwill, or I could decide what to toss in the trash to make more room for keepsakes that I had started collecting for Senna. There were any number of chores one could perform in their closet.

I knew that I was not planning on taking inventory of the crates and boxes and bags.

There is something in the closet, far back in the corner, where the box of my mother's once-cherished doll collection has rested since it was passed along to me. Inside is an even smaller box. It's no larger than a deck of cards, unmarred except for greenish-colored brass hinges and a small clasp lock on the front. The dolls I remember being displayed around the house on high shelves during my childhood had not seen daylight since becoming my property. I had considered putting them up in my own house, but when I found the small wooden crate hidden among the foamy clouds of lace and satin that clothed the precious figurines, I quickly resealed the carton and shoved it into the back of my closet.