My inner child is still running the halls of my elementary school.
My best friend in the entire world to this day, Cass, grew up just blocks away from me. Her mom worked in the front office of our school.
Although we rode the same bus, Cass and I used to occasionally “accidentally” hide in the bathrooms so we could miss it together. This meant we could goof around in the empty building until her (highly annoyed) mom finished work and could drive us home.
We’d wander the empty classrooms and cafeteria. Unencumbered by the crowd of our peers, we were free from the typical shackles of our introversion. We’d visit with our favorite teachers, play hide and seek in the library, or raid the art room to hide the best supplies for our next masterpiece.
We’d exchange rare treasures: stickers, animal-shaped erasers, perfectly smooth rocks from the playground. Evidence of the depths of our friendship (and our overall pockets).
In those moments, we had all we knew of the world to ourselves. We left a stamp of ownership on the place that was shaping us.
Those days are long over, and our old elementary school is gone now. However, a chunk of my heart remains.
I like to think those imaginative, hopeful young girls would feel safe with me now. At times, the trauma I’ve endured since those days fills me with anger. It makes me sad to imagine how that would scare them. In my more healed moments, I realize that righteous anger flares up to protect them from further harm.
Today, Cass and I still trade cherished treasures: art prints, bottles of wine, emergency plane tickets and midnight phone calls, knick-knacks that ‘just reminded me of you’.
We’ve lived across the country from one another for over a decade now, a fact we frequently lament but which hasn’t made a dent in our connection. It’s also something we’re in serious talks about changing as we age.
Our safe place no longer exists within the confines of a familiar school building. In that magical place, however, we forged a shelter in each other that remains unshaken by time.
Trauma sucks. Recovery shouldn’t. Enjoyed this article? Support a survivor’s recovery and help me lift others by following my writing!