How frequently I play this little head game of mine is directly proportional to my stress level: the more anxiety-ridden I am, the more prone I am to losing myself in the Perfects – that is, when I am not busy imagining doom and gloom.

One of the 'perfects' that's been going through my mind a lot lately is the Perfect Hideaway. Before I go any further, you have to know something about me: I love small, cramped, confined spaces. My favourite place as a kid was this small space between the headboard of my bed, which was solid all the way down to the floor, and the wall behind it. My bed was aligned on the side with a wall, so the space was one part headboard back and two parts wall. The perfect hiding place. I used to wedge myself in that space, taking a book or some toys, and some times even a snack with me. I know there were times when my mother would look for me and, glancing in the bedroom, not have the slightest idea I was there. She couldn't see me as long as I drew my knees up and didn't peek out and see her, and that seemed almost rebellious to me.

Nowadays, my perfect hideaway is actually out in the open. Nothing, and I mean nothing, feels more comforting than curling up in the corner of our leather couch, my face smooshed into the arm and the back, covered by a blanket. There is something inherently womb-like about it. I could care less if there are ten other people in the room – even one sitting on the couch – with me: when I sink into the soft, welcoming leather and pull that blanket over my head, I am safe in my little corner. As far as I am concerned, they can't see me if I can't see them, and there's nothing rebellious about it this time. I'm just too tired of hiding somewhere else and I'm going to do it out in the open.

L

Written on 12 December 2005 at 7:02 pm