Security Blanket...

"Melissa, you hold on so tightly and you don't let go." the therapist said to my fifteen year old self, curling her fingers into tight fists. I remember looking back at her thinking she just opened a door that I didn't know existed and I'm walking through it, unsure of where to go. I do hang on too tightly. To everything, and no, I don't know how to let go.

Fast forward twelve years later and I'm still bumbling around trying to find the answer. I never asked her for it. I remember just nodding, feeling paralyzed.

I'm currently sitting on board a non-stop flight to Atlanta that left Chicago an hour ago. I stare out the window at the clouds beneath me and suddenly I'm filled with an intense desire to jump out and run all the way back to Chicago. What the hell am I doing on this plane? Chasing after something that doesn't exist anymore? Yup, that's it and I'm angry with myself for doing it.

The plane lands and I contemplate staying at Hartsfield and boarding the next flight out to Chicago. I talk myself out of it and take MARTA into the city. All I wanted was to wrap myself up in the sparkly security blanket I left behind when I moved.

Weeks before leaving for Chicago I stumbled upon the blanket and carried it everywhere with me. It eased my anxiety of moving, listened to all my confessions, kept me warm while I slept, and like a narcotic, it coated my brain with a wonderful illusion that everything was flawless and free of any sort of hurt or anger. It was this sort of safe place I found myself turning to every chance I got.

When it came time to move I had no room left for the blanket. I carefully placed it in a safe place, promising to be back as soon as I could and then I left.

I missed it terribly and upon returning I hoped to find it in the same condition as to when I left. Sure enough, it was and my worry dissipated leaving me feeling elated and calm once I left again. I went back again and again and everything was still the same until this time.

This time is different. Something must have happened along the way because when I went back for the blanket, it was merely a collection of string. There was nothing warm about it. I pick up the strings and lace them around my fingers, squeezing them, trying to get that warmth back but there's nothing. "No, no, no." I tell it. "Not yet. Don't go away. I'm not ready." Very slowly the strands begin to disintegrate in my hands.

Anger boils underneath the surface of my skin and I snatch a pair of scissors and begin to cut furiously away at the strings, slicing my skin in the process. I keep cutting until there is one left. I can't bring myself to sever this one despite the fact that it's threatening to slip away. I keep it around my fingers, fall asleep, carry it with me on the plane back to Chicago, waiting to wake up one day without it. In the meantime, I'm still struggling to find the answer to the question "how do I learn to let go?"