The Monster Under My Bed

One afternoon I found myself struggling with writer’s block. So, naturally, I took to Google. After googling, “how to fight writer’s block,” I came across this post titled 7 Creative Writing Prompts To Spark Your Writing.

Prompt: When you were little, you could swear there was a monster under your bed–but no one believed you. On the eve of your 30th birthday, you hear noises coming from under your bed once again. The monster is back and has an important message to deliver to you.

My response turned into quite the reflection, so much so that I’ve decided to publicly share it here:

Don’t startle.

I’m real.

I’ve been here all along and I’m not going anywhere.

Do you remember how you used to handle me when you were little? Too afraid to look beneath the bed. Hopeful that, if you didn’t see me, I’d magically cease to exist?

I’m here. I’ve always been here.

You might be wondering why I chose now to reveal myself to you. I’ve been here since you were born. I’m not the only of my kind. Each and every person in this world has a creature like me under their bed. From those with the smallest beds to the ones lucky enough to have large, luxurious ones. Even those that sleep on couches, mats or the ground itself.

We come in all shapes and sizes and we stay with you for life. Just like the molecules that make up your being and the voice that incessantly chatters inside your head.

You don’t always think about me and you were never really sure of my existence until now.

I want you to think about why you have feared me.

Was it the thought of never truly being alone? Or just that — the thought of being alone and having no one to defend you, to help you face me?

Why didn’t you confront me? In all your 30 years. Not once did you even try. I could feel your fear as real as the draft that crept in from the windows and bored its way into your bones in the dead of winter.

I could hear your careful steps as you tiptoed around your room, dressing after a fresh shower.

I could hear your small sigh beneath the covers, the way you’d blow warm air under there, trying to defrost the chill that roamed around your bones.

I could feel every toss and turn. Your restless nights were my restless nights. The weight of your deep sleep allowed my slumber.

I bore witness to the fights that sent you flinging onto your mattress, eyes wet and heart heavy.

I was there for your most intimate moments. The ones you often though that you alone held. You shared them with me.

I show my face now to tell you that I am not going anywhere.

I am the fear that catapults your heart into mid air and the support that you cannot see but can sense, in the dark.

I am here.

I am not going anywhere.