The Center Rug

I kneel on my rug, back straight, elbows rested on the comforter of my bed. I am racking my brain for names and faces: people I know, people I once knew, people I barely am accustomed to, and people I hear about through others. The faces play across my mind like a slideshow, and I pray for each one of them, for their safety, happiness, and satisfaction. I pause on each face, spending ample time sending them all the heavenly good wishes I can. As the faces peter out, the film comes to an end, and I rise to my feet. The white glowing letters on my clock read 2:30, and I breathe in quick, short gasps, sucking up all the air I didn’t realize I had forgotten about. The sheets are soft, and my head is heavy; peace has returned to my mind. The smile on my face as I sleep has a sweet longing to it, of hope and dreams and things to be. The rush of water, the sound of a loved one’s laugh, the whimsical joy of children brings me light as I finally can rest.

As the seasons change from fall to winter, my bare knees grow cold on the rug, but still I stand steady. The day my dad gets too drunk and screams that he resents me for my existence, I come back to the rug in tears, shaking, but by the time I get up, relief and clarity has washed over me. The day my boyfriend tells me he loves me, the butterflies and joy enclose my heart as I kneel on the rug. I at first only see his face, but soon I come back to myself a bit and see the world as a whole, beautiful and intertwined. I see the ways I can love him like I have been loved my whole life, and I feel like my heart is his, but also so much mine.

One morning, the coffee was scalding, the bus was late, my boss was yelling, and I broke down in tears. My oversensitive soul quivered at the chastisement. But my head still hung high. I know who I am and what I have going for me. I yearned for my room, for words with each face I had prayed for the night before. I go home that night and kneel on the rug once more, ready for a plethora of peace to unfold inside me. The face of my mother flashes by in my mind, and I smile, knowing the love we hold for each other is infinite, and I get to see her every night now even when she is far away. The shrieks start almost instantly, and my breath catches in my chest. It is the fire alarm blaring from the hall. I run out to see, groggy from being in my head so much, and people are bustling about with blankets and pets, leaving the building as quickly as they can. “It must be real then”, I think. I can’t see straight, but I grab my keys and head into the cramped line of people exiting. The smoke furls out from apartment number 326, and reality sets in. The lick of flames on the door frame, the screams of babies as they are swiftly carried out almost bring me to my knees. I need to get back to my apartment. I need the peace that comes from the rushing water and laughter in my mind. I push back against the crowd, fighting to get back to my rug, my safe place, my haven from hell. The men in fireproof suits drag me back out, and I soon realize the loudest shrieks are coming from me now. The tears stream down my face, and I am undone. The flames rise higher, and I can see when they reach my hallway. The thick smoke chokes me and I let it, as I am dragged on my knees out of the building.

I see my trail of blood on the concrete from my raw knees, and the firefighters stand over me. They can’t understand what is happening to me. They haven’t seen all the nights after good, bad, and ugly days that I came back to myself and others. That was how I centered, and they had ripped me from that, only to take me to watch a fiery furnace eat the sanctuary of my soul. I feel nothing but pain in my heart, and I can’t breathe. Later, I would hear how they finally got the oxygen reader on my limp finger, and the numbers 85% flashed on the screen. The lack of peace and permanence had literally taken my breath away.

The white walls around me glowed in the bright lights. I could see where holes had been covered on the walls painted a slightly gray shade of white, giving the room a patchwork sense. They didn’t know what was wrong with me, but they had assumed I was suicidal and removed almost everything from my room. All that remained was the TV bolted to the wall, a singular chair covered in dirty upholstery, and an oxygen machine on the wall. I traced the patterns of the wall patches on the blanket with my finger, finding shapes like I would in clouds. The mental health specialist finally arrived, and I just let the words spill out. The depth of my agony at being interrupted was met with equal understanding and confusion. They spoke of internal regulation apart from an external place, but to fathom such a thing felt hard, like pulling out a tooth still firmly rooted in my mouth. The diagnoses flew at me, so many words and letters: OCD, delusions, schizophrenia. All I know is my peace was kept through thick and thin, and now I must learn to live without a haven, unmoored, a ship lost at sea with no land in sight. I cling to the deck of the ship, rocking in the waves of life, unsure which one will capsize me. Until one person changes my life; they come up to me and say, “Just have an anchor you can put down anywhere you need to”, and it finally feels like I am being met at my level with an honest answer I can take to heart.