When I was a little girl, I had a blanket. I think I had two, actually, but one disappeared along the way to childhood. It was a soft pink flannel baby blanket – nothing special. I loved the way it felt, and I liked to suck on a spot around the edge until it was nice and wet, and then I’d rub it against my face and in between my fingers while I moved my tongue against the roof of my mouth in a soothing way.
When I was nine years old, my dad told me I was too old to have a blanket. He tried reasoning with me. He tried hiding it from me. He tried bargaining with me. I wanted my fucking blanket. It wasn’t like I carried it around outside the house or took it to school. It soothed me at night. It made me feel safe and happy. So what?
The thing eventually fell apart, after years of rubbings and washings and being tied into knot balls by my tormenting father. I don’t remember missing it too terribly much after that.
Now that I’m a big girl, I don’t need a blanket anymore, but one day a prince came along who became my safe place. He just makes everything feel better. Any tiny adjustment in our routine affects me like a knot in my blanket. It frustrates me and I’m unsettled until everything has been unwound and feels smooth again.
I can’t get enough. It’s never enough. But every minute is like some magic dose of calm and happiness to which I’ve grown accustomed and dependent upon, like the air that fills my lungs. I crave it. I need it. And when I get it, I feel alive and content and restored to sanity.
Thank god I can breathe again.