It’s seven in the morning. I wish just once in my life this condition would allow me to sleep a little later. I have this perpetual mental alarm clock that switches my mind on at the same time every morning, whether I’m still tired or not.
I lie here most mornings until I hear my mother and father moving around downstairs. I would lie here all day if I had the choice.
I slap my arm over my eyes in hopes of dozing off for just another minute or so. I find myself dazed and awake instead. I see a blazing hot sun in a clear blue sky, not icicles dangling from my windowpane like there should be. I turn my head and focus my eyes on the thermostat that shows seventy-five degrees. I smile and reach my arms above my head, stretching out every muscle. It looks like a perfect moment to head outside for a quick run before my long day starts.
I don’t intend on losing a single moment of this warm, welcoming weather. Vitamin D would do me some good, I’m sure. I slip on jogging pants and a t-shirt and shove my feet into old sneakers.
Running feels effortless today, as if the world is floating beneath me with no resistance.
I feel like I’m flying…
I glance down at my feet and find that I’m not quite running anymore, but rather pirouetting three feet off the ground with the grace of a ballerina at every stride. My thoughts race. I’m filled with a feeling of freedom, happiness.
Clarity.
My eyes snap open and my ears sting from the alarm clock's screaming buzzer. The clock says 7:02 a.m. It has only been one hundred and twenty seconds since I closed my eyes. I sigh and gaze out at the dark sky filled with gray clouds and cold wind. I hate how my frost-covered window allows the single-digit March temperatures to sneak into my already frigid bedroom.
I’d prefer someplace more reasonable, like San Diego, where the weather always seems to be warm and perfect compared to frostbitten New England. I’ve been there, actually. It’s become my dream to take up permanent residence there someday.
Just as I’m drawing up my daily plan to escape from Southborough, Massachusetts, an echoing sound travels up the stairs.
“Chloe, are you awake?” Her voice makes me cringe. I clap my hands over my ears to block out the shrill sound of it. “Do I need to come up there?” she yells again. Her voice pierces my clenched fingers and penetrates my ears.
No, I think. The last thing I need is for you to come up here.
“Sorry, Mother,” I shout back. “I must have fallen back asleep.” I groan at the thought of starting another day in the same way I start every other day.
And it’s all about my so-called condition.
I’ve clearly become a burden on them since the age of seven…which, not coincidentally, was around the same time my diagnosis was made. No big surprise there.
I hesitate to call it a condition because it really seems as if there’s nothing that can be done to fix it. And really, I don’t mind it; my altered state of mind has never bothered me like it bothers my parents. Other than slipping into this state every so often, I’m no different than anyone else. But I’ve been going to the same doctor since I was seven years old. He’s the one who labeled it “temporary fugue-state dissociation.” Second opinions aren’t an option when it comes to my mother; one person told her twelve years ago that I have an incurable condition, so that’s the opinion we’re going to rely on forever.
And in her world, protecting me has meant imprisoning me. I’m essentially a captive here, in my own house…in my own room. She’s made it clear that if I leave, she’ll report me to the authorities and disown me. I’d become a ward of the state, and be institutionalized—permanently. At this point, I’m not sure I’d be able to tell the difference.
