The Unknown

Taking a deep breath. Feeling the air dance gently through my nostrils, sliding down my esophagus, lungs filling with air. Holding for just a moment before letting it go, slowly. The cool air now warm from my body temperature as the lungs deflate and the air flows out of my mouth like I’m trying to fog up a mirror.

There it is again.

Mirror.

Visions of my son dancing to his own reflection in a house of mirrors. Everywhere I look, a different version of him. His energy dancing away with reflections that seem endless even infinite.

The renovations on the house are ongoing, much like the inner work I’ve been doing. Down the street, when the Jenners were doing their renovations, they found a family heirloom that turned out to be an actual Renaissance artifact. A classic painting. Museums are begging them to loan it out. Judging by how they’ve been in and out of town, it must’ve been priced with a number including many zeros. Lucky for them, I guess. They’ll probably move.

Meanwhile, I sit here in this strange ambivalent envy. I want to be happy for them; their blessings don’t take away from mine. But there is a nervousness growing with my own renovations.

Pretty sure nobody steps foot into our basement except on rare occasions to get holiday décor or dump more forgotten junk. I’m not sure how the basement was neglected for so long or why we didn’t care. Our lives are decent, and we just… never think about it.

But now we have to.

Because, of course, a pipe would burst.

The more they investigate, the worse it gets. I’m sick to my stomach. And I can’t help comparing these renovations to my inner world. I feel like a pipe is about to burst, or already has, and I’ve been too incomplete to notice. Not broken. Just… unfinished.

The thought of going down into the basement to “fix” it, replace it, or even witness it overwhelms me. We used to have family discussions about finishing it. The basement had so much potential but daily life, work, school, the kids and everything. It all made the plans fade away.

Now the plumbers are coming with the final damage cost. More people, more calls, more rot: wood, potential mildew, maybe mold. And bugs. God, I hate maggots. They’re my worst fear.

Of course the foundation would rot. My mind is racing. It must be anxiety and overstimulation. We’ll get through it, but it’s bringing up a lot of inner work.

These burst pipes feel like the metaphysical result of ignoring the lack of love, respect, acknowledgment, and true intimacy that’s been going on for years. Not lacking... nonexistent. Extinct.

How did we get here?

The kids are growing up and hardly look me in the eyes anymore. Everything feels like a constant attitude battle. When things are “good,” it’s only because we barely see each other, and when we do, everything is surface level. How did my family lose its spark?

Of course the foundation is rotting.

It’s been rotting.

Is it only me? How did connection disappear in a family that sees each other daily?

Normally I’d shut these thoughts down, detach, disassociate, numb out with another novel or movie. I thought if we did everything “right” ~ no drinking, no smoking, church on Sundays, good careers, good grades for the kids ~ that meant we were winning at life. We own our home, we have cars, we’re not homeless. We’re blessed.

So why am I freaking out inside?!

The rapid breathing, the shallow breaths, the lightheadedness. Not again.

Back to deep breaths.

Let’s try again.

No more ignoring. No more avoiding.

I have to go to the fvking basement.

This isn’t going away. It can’t be ignored. I’ve imagined the worst, and the worst-case scenario is that we have to move. The only way out is straight through.

Finally, I stand up from the couch and head toward the stairs. As I pass the patio windows, I pause. We really do have a beautiful mountain view. I would hate to move.

The closer I get to the basement door, the more guilt I feel. I should’ve noticed my family rotting from the foundation. We all felt it, and now the house reflects it. The house is huge! We even had to hire cleaning help. I don’t spend time in the west wing. And everyone mistakes the basement door for a towel closet anyway.

It really has been ignored.

I walk toward the plain white door. The door itself should probably be replaced. I judge my own modern house, the fakeness of it. I grab a cheap plastic lantern from IKEA and feel disgusted. The place looks like a magazine spread. Perfect. Untouched. Bland. It doesn’t look lived in.

It disgusts me. Why now?

I never felt this way about my house.

The only thing that stands out is the glass turtle on the coffee table with marbled blue swirls, glows in the dark. We got it in Hawaii. Ten years ago, or was it fifteen? My God. Where has the time gone?

I know I’m living someone else’s dream. Why do I feel so empty?

My hand trembles on the doorknob. My heart feels like it’s trying to punch its way out of my chest.

This is the unknown.

The moment of truth.

All these rotten childhood memories and flashbacks hit me at once. My body tenses, breath held, going numb like I’ve seen a ghost. PTSD? Maybe a mild version? Or maybe I’m losing my mind? I’m barely holding it together. Part of me feels faint. Part of me wants to ignore everything and go back to routine. Back to eating ice cream on Wednesdays at 7:30 p.m. with extra-large sprinkles.

Fvck fvck fvck fvck.

Okay.

Here we go.

I open the door as if I am expecting something to jump at me. It's just a staircase descending into darkness.

It doesn’t even smell rotten. Just mildew. That’s… good?

I turn on the dim light and step down, each floorboard creaking as if warning me. At the bottom, standing in the dark, chills crawl across my skin. My body screams to run. Fight-or-flight consuming me. Don't freeze!

This basement is everything I’ve ignored for decades. Waiting for me.

Is it my past?

My drug addict parents?

The shame I carried for so long?

I was never good.

I’m good now.

I swear I’m good now.

Tears flood my eyes, my chest aches with heavy air. I start frantically turning on every light I can find, stumbling around the room at the bottom of the stairs.

“Show yourself!”

“What’s the damage!?”

A shrill cry rips out of me.

I collapse onto the couch, sobbing.

I don’t know how long I sit there, but everything is covered in plastic. I forgot we even had a living room down here. My tears dry, my vision clears. A fireplace. This basement was beautiful once.

Why did we avoid it so long?

With shaking bravery, I stand and walk into the unfinished room where the pipe burst. The floor is cement already. The damage… isn’t even bad.

Not bad?

Not bad?!

I’ve been stressing all week for nothing.

Now I feel stupid.

What the fvck.

Back on the couch, stunned by myself. Clearly, I have issues. Am I PMSing? No… follicular phase. Weird.

There are three doors around me, and a hallway with three more. I forgot where most of them even lead. The hallway feels frozen in time. Cold and stagnant. While I am here, might as well look around.

I check the closest door. Storage.

The next is the water heater.

The plumbers exaggerated. The mess is contained.

The third?

A towel closet.

A laugh erupts from deep in my belly. A towel closet. Didn't expect that, how could I forget?

Down the hallway. One door leads to a bathroom. The other is a guest room that is pale blue with an old floral pattern. Beautiful. Forgotten.

What was the door at the end of the hall? My body feels funny as I walk towards the door. Almost as if I am remembering something important for the first time in a long time.

I open the door and drop to my knees.

Even in the dark, I remember.

Mahogany floors stretching out, polished to a shine. Breathtaking chandeliers hanging as if tear drops from heaven. The room is huge.

How could my memory leave this magic out?

I flip the switch. The chandeliers glow sending rainbow prisms dancing across the room.

The room of mirrors.

My dance studio.

I step inside, slip off my shoes, and run forward full speed. Twirling, gliding, breath catching in my chest. I feel like singing!

The room is big and free. A sanctuary.

I stare at my reflection. My body is older. I’m not in my best shape. I feel… ugly sometimes.

But the smile looking back at me,

I recognize her.

This is what’s been forgotten.

Not the basement.

Not the house.

The ability to dream.