The Closet Door

It’s one of those things that you are embarrassed about later, even if you really shouldn’t be.

When I got home from a play Saturday night, I went into my bathroom to get ready for bed and saw the door to my walk-in closet was shut. That may not seem weird to you, but it was to me. In fact, that was my exact thought: “That’s weird. Why did I shut the door?” Because I almost never have a reason to shut that closet door.

It gets better. I reached out to open the door to put my shoes away, and the door was locked. Y’all, I didn’t even know that closet door could lock. “What the heck . . . how in the world did I . . .?” I looked the knob over and messed around with it for a while. There was one of those little pokey-hole things (forgive my limited mechanical vocabulary), and I started looking for a paper clip to poke in there and get the knob unlocked. All the while I’m thinking, “How in the world did I accidentally lock this door? I mean, I never even have a reason to touch the knob on the other side, much less lock it. Does it seriously lock? How? Is there a button on the knob you push in? How have I never noticed that? But there’s nothing it could have even bumped into to accidentally push in a button to lock it. Did someone else -- . . . “

That’s when I froze. Because I live alone. And suddenly, I realized, Maybe I don’t want to see what – or who – is behind this door . . .

I slowly backed out of the room. Very quietly, I looked around the house. Nothing seemed disturbed. I checked the locks on the outside doors; the top bolt on the front door was unlocked – which meant someone with a key could have gotten in the house. And locked themselves in my closet to wait for me to get home.

Now, I knew quite well that this whole scenario I was imagining was quite unlikely. Nevertheless, alone in a dark house at night, the improbability of the scenario didn’t loom as large as the possibility of it. And I started to get scared.

I stayed in the dark front of the house and quietly texted a group of friends, thinking I’d explain the situation to them and they’d talk me off the ledge. Instead, their response was, “Get out of the house, Gwen! If you feel unsafe, leave!”

They got me on a conference call and talked me into the car to drive to Diane's place. She and I called the police, whom we met back in my cul de sac. They walked through my house, checked inside my closet (which they managed to unlock with a Salata gift card), under beds, and everywhere else, and reported back that all was clear. (Although the big body pillow hiding under the covers of my bed gave them a jolt for a moment.)

So, no monsters or intruders or nothin’. Big whew! I still can’t for the life of me imagine how I managed to accidentally turn a lock on a doorknob that I wasn’t even aware existed ('cause it wasn't even a simple button -- it's a turny-thing, for pete's sake). But whatever. It seems I won’t get raped or murdered in my bed tonight, thank you, Jesus. My jangled nerves eventually settled, and I went to sleep (with the help of a mild sedative).

And in the morning, I felt a little silly. I mean, I had called the frickin’ police to come unlock my closet and look inside. Good grief. 

But no, it wasn't silly. My friends were right. Follow your instincts, they kept saying; if something doesn’t feel right, act on that. Better safe than sorry. And yes, that’s probably what I needed to do. I'm glad I texted them and grateful they called me back. When I'm all by myself with only my own voice to listen to, my perspective can get pretty whacked. 

We really do need other humans. Alone, you can drown in your Self. But the wise share their Selves with other Selves to make all our Selves better -- and to keep us safe from monsters in suddenly locked closets.