It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. I’d much rather have a fairytale than long, lonesome winter evenings, but our romantic comedy turned into a drama way too early and suddenly, there were monsters hiding behind every door I opened – each waiting for their turn to come out, not trying to stop me when I closed the door with eyes wide open.
They never went away but I got used to them. I wasn’t sure what they were waiting for and when they would start to act, so I tiptoed around them, breathed less and tried to be more quiet. I even grew fond of a few and started wondering if I could live without them if they disappeared. I didn’t notice how, slowly, there was less and less of me.
It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, but I started waking up in the middle of the night, scared of a stranger in my bed which didn’t even look like my bed anymore, in a strange apartment, in a different time. It scared me. I was living somebody else’s life and I had to do a mental exercise each time, going around the place, counting: my kitchen, my chair, my clothes, my bed, my body, my boyfriend, my monsters. It felt like I was learning those things rather than remembering them. It was strange hearing my own name – who is she? – and coming home in the evening – where am I? I didn’t belong there anymore. It was time for me to go.
It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, but if I hadn’t, I would disappear completely and turn into a monster myself. There are no monsters left, only skeletons. I killed them all, and skeletons, too, will slowly turn to dust.