Monsters in the Shadows

The monsters under the bed were real to me. They had names—Fear, Loneliness, Change. They hid in the brown shag carpet and in the dark corners of the room I shared with Aunt Libby. At night, I leapt into bed from several feet away, convinced they would grab my ankles if I got too close. These weren’t the kind of monsters you could see or fight with the light of a flashlight; they were the kind that crept into your thoughts when the world grew quiet.

Amarillo was a different world altogether, one that seemed determined to remind me of how out of place I was. Back in Starr, my days were spent barefoot, chasing fireflies in wide-open pastures. The familiar cadence of cicadas hummed in the background as I climbed on old southern live oaks, balanced on barn fence posts, and roamed under the endless open sky. The earth there was soft and warm, and it held memories in every corner—Grandmother's red birds that nested every spring, the old riding lawn mower I learned to drive when I was five, Boots the cat, whom I missed terribly.

But here, in this suburban neighborhood, the earth felt harder, colder. Sidewalks replaced dirt paths, and the sky seemed boxed in by buildings stacked one atop the other like Lincoln Logs at my old daycare. People talked faster, their words clipped and unfamiliar, like music played in the wrong key. Even the air felt strange, laced with the pungent scent of Hereford feed yards instead of the sweet aroma of honeysuckle and blackberries growing along Farmer Road. The monsters thrived in this environment, feeding off my confusion and my longing for a life left behind.

At school, I was the outsider. My southern drawl, my scrawny frame, and my never ending desire to walk barefoot marked me as different. The other kids noticed, of course. Children always do. Their giggles and whispered jokes about the redneck farm girl stung, but the sting turned into a dull ache over time. I began to shrink inward, guarding my heart like a treasure I wasn’t sure I could trust anyone else to hold.

At night, the monsters grew louder. The lace canopy on the four poster bed cast ghostly patterns on the walls, and my imagination turned the shadows into writhing creatures. The brown shag carpet became a swampy abyss where unseen hands reached up to grab me. But the monsters didn’t really live in the room. They lived in my mind, taking the form of unanswered questions and feelings I didn’t have the words to explain.

Why had we left Starr? Why did everything feel so different, so wrong? Why did I feel so lonely when I was surrounded by people who loved me?

Mama J noticed, of course. She always noticed. But she never pried. Instead, she handed me tools—the typewriter, stacks of crisp typing paper, and the occasional knowing glance that said, “I’m here if you need me.” Her typewriter became my weapon against the monsters. Each clack of the keys felt like a victory, each line of text a small act of defiance against the chaos inside me.

In the stories I typed, the monsters had faces. They had names and weaknesses, and they could be defeated by clever girls with quick wits and unshakable courage. Those girls were my heroes, my guides through a world that often felt overwhelming. Writing gave me control in a way nothing else could. It allowed me to create a version of life where the pieces fit together, where questions had answers, and where lonely little girls found their place.

Looking back now, I see how much my family loved me, even when they didn’t always know how to show it. We were all carrying our own monsters in those days, and love often looked like survival—like making sure there was dinner on the table, like tucking a little girl into bed even when she insisted on leaping into it from across the room. Time and patience have revealed the full picture, a mosaic of love and resilience painted against the backdrop of our shared struggles.

The monsters didn’t leave me overnight. They lingered in the shadows, sometimes retreating, sometimes surging back with a vengeance. But the typewriter gave me something they couldn’t take away: a voice, a way to make sense of the world and my place in it. Mama J’s quiet faith and unwavering support taught me that even in the darkest times, there’s a light to be found if you’re willing to look for it.

Now, decades later, I can still hear the rhythmic clacking of that typewriter in my mind. It’s the sound of healing, of a little girl discovering her strength, of monsters being driven back into the shadows. It’s the sound of survival, one carriage return at a time.