Risking an Open Heart

Broken hearts had made me nervous from an early age.  I had started my life adventurous and had slowly withdrawn into myself.  Always safe herself and an erstwhile hypochondriac, my mother played a major role in my withdrawal into myself.  I knew she meant well, but her adamant desire for safety trumped my desires for adventure. 

If I wanted to go on a walk, there would probably be a loose dog waiting to attack me.  If I wanted to go swimming, there were too many things that could happen to me – drowning being the most obvious, sharks, fish, jellyfish, tadpoles.  If you could think of an obstacle, it was sure to happen to me.  And only me.  Everyone and everything was against me so I eventually ended up staying in my bedroom, too scared to come out. 

At least that is what I made my mother think.  I hoped and prayed she would never realize my bedroom did and would unlock.  If she knew how many nights I spent out of the house, I would be locked in the basement.  She had found out about my brother sneaking out and I hadn’t seen him in three months.