The odd thing about my fear is that for years it was never really related to a fear of actually dying in a fire. Back when I was keeping my worldly possessions in a laundry basket under my bedroom window, I never really doubted that I would be able to get out of the house. I had convinced myself that of the four bedrooms in our two-story colonial, mine was probably the easiest one from which to escape.
No, the selfish child I was was afraid that I wouldn't be able to save my "things." For the life of me, I can't name for you all of the "things" that I needed to save. I know that the laundry basket was not static, its contents changed almost daily as I prioritized and re-prioritized my belongings. I know that I always kept some clothes and a pair of shoes in the laundry basket because if nothing else, I was practical. Too many times I had read about people escaping a house fire "with just the clothes on their back." I wanted to make sure that I had more than just my Holly Hobbie nightgown to wear. I also recall that my favorite yellow blanket made its way into the basket on a regular basis, and I'm pretty certain that my piggy bank which contained about $117 in small bills and change was a mainstay in the laundry basket because how else would I be able to buy new things?
Now that I am a wife and mother and my fear has come back with a vengeance, my fear has slowly morphed into a fear of actually dying in a fire and/or a fear that I won't be able to save my family and one, some or all of us will perish. This is the fear I am trying to work through by writing these posts.
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