It is just a door. Like any other. Warm brown wood, with no frame, and an average-sized handle. There were no glass pieces, nothing to give out anything extraordinary about it. It was just a door like any other door a person sees countless times in their life, whether it is when they are walking past an Ikea or another furniture store, or visiting their grandmother and wondering why hasn’t she bought doors that were a bit less simple, only to remember that “back then” the doors with more sophisticated designs were very expensive. Trust me on that. There was absolutely no reason for me to just stand there, hesitantly, with my hand on the doorknob, which at that point was becoming warm with the anticipation coming from me, as I know that I often lack patience with such simple tasks. I have never believed in intuition, or in a “sixth sense” that authors often use as a helpful tool for foreshadowing in books or stories, but I could not explain why I was so hesitant about that particular door. Perhaps it is because I have been told countless stories by my mother, meant to warn me about talking to strangers, and scare me away from forests and dark alleys at night, and unknown doors to God-knows-what because there might be a murderer with a chainsaw on the other side of it. My other hand started fidgeting nervously, and pulling on the soft, cotton string of my favorite green jacket as the thought hit my head like a bullet. Get a grip, girl, don’t overthink, I thought to myself the moment I realized my own foolishness. It was just a door. A piece of wood. There was nothing extraordinary about it. So, unconsciously biting my lower lip, and still grasping the jacket, I slowly pushed the metal handle down, and I opened the door that for some reason appeared in my room out of nowhere while I was trying to calm down during an incredibly strong anxiety attack, when I felt as if the tears that were running down my cheeks are acid, and every organ inside me was swollen to the point where I couldn’t breathe or even make the tiniest sound or utter a cry for help.
The door led to a room. Obviously, I thought to myself. Yet when I looked around it, when I stepped in, I felt a sense of calm fill me. The room was painted in a reassuring warm-gray color, with my favorite blue and pink cotton lights that I hung above my bed on the wall. There was also an old school, baby-blue radio, the type where one has to put a cassette into it to play music. It also had place for a huge, rose bean bag, and the floor was covered with a fluffy carpet that tickled my feet when I walked around the room. I also found a stack of my favorite books, chocolate chip cookies, and five blankets neatly folded on the floor. That sight, the ultimate anti-anxiety room, was almost too much for me to handle at once. Then I looked down, and saw a tiny piece of paper by my feet. I opened it, with no signs of my previous hesitation and doubts, and read.
You do not have to be feeling perfect all the time. Feeling okay is enough, and I know that this will help you see the light when you feel hopeless.
Love, the person that will always be there,
Me