I’ve never been good with closed doors. I like open spaces. Rooms that are arranged in a circle so that there are no corners. Maybe I should get some of those large roundy security mirrors in any corners so that I can see into the other rooms.

I’m not sure why I have this problem. Or when it started. Closed doors mean disappearing, secrecy, and aloneness. I want to know what’s on the other side, because there could be anything on the other side.
My imagination makes sure I know that.

When I was a kid, I didn’t like being in a room with the door closed. It felt like the world outside had fallen away. I would leave the bathroom door cracked for fear that if I closed the door all the way I would suddenly be in a free-floating bathroom in some inky void. Too bad there wasn’t a fridge in there, I would have been set.

This caused problems later on in life. As a young adult, I lived in a large, cold twelve bedroom house with eleven strangers. I hated closing my bedroom door all the way. Apparently, leaving my door cracked six inches caused great consternation with my floor-mates. At least one of them felt because my door was ajar, she had to tip toe around in the morning. I told her a few times that she need not change her patterns, but it gnarled her up bad enough to cause a rift in the house.
I started closing my door.

I still dislike closed doors and I prefer to keep them open if possible.
But as difficult as it might be, sometimes I have to close a door.