Sometimes I feel like I’m on some sort of Truman-meets-Hoarders reality show.

[Warning: if you’ve never seen The Truman Show, this does contain spoilers, so read at your own risk. Also, watch The Truman Show. Whether you finish reading this or not. Because it’s a good movie.]

I grew up as a COH. That’s no surprise to anyone who’s been reading this blog or . . . probably anyone who read the title of this blog. Yeah.

Anyway! But the thing is, all while growing up in that house, I didn’t know the world was watching and saying, “Something isn’t right here.”

It’s amazing how long the world can watch and not do anything. I’m so grateful for those people–my own Laurens and people popping out of packages–who told me that something wasn’t right. They helped me explore my life and realize that I didn’t have to stay there.

Of course, I didn’t have a whole major conspiracy of people trying to keep me trapped. More like . . . my own personal team of depression and guilt and fear and other silent assailants. And, of course, my parents, who kept me fooled, not by being good actors toward me, but by keeping themselves fooled.

Still, I eventually realized the truth. And through a storm of turmoil and self-doubt, I stayed the course, determined to get away. But then the skies cleared, the water was smooth sailing, the wind was in my hair . . . and I hit a wall.

But here is where my story caught in a mess and Truman’s caught on television no longer run parallel.

Because Truman walked out a door. Me . . . well, I’m still digging through the junk, trying to find the door. I know it’s got to be around here somewhere.

Again, I’m so grateful for my helpers–my counselor, my husband, several friends, one sister, and you, my readers, all helping me dig, chuck the unnecessary, sort through the necessary, and generally just try to find that door. (You understand, of course, that though the door is figurative, the mess is mostly figurative but somewhat literal as well.) And sometimes it seems like I’m so close to the door!

But then I have conversations like the one with a friend last night:

“I’m sorry for the state of the house. I was almost caught up, then I got sick.”

“Actually . . . no offense, but . . . I can’t tell the difference.”

And I bang on the wall in frustration and scream, “LET ME OUT!”

Like I said, sometimes I feel like I’m close. So close that I turn to the world and say, “In case I don’t see you, good afternoon, good evening, and good–oh, great, now what’s in the way?”

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