Trunkaphobia

My mom and my dad had a lot of problems with one another, and for a large portion of my childhood this was the key proponent of my life. Today, I remember arguments they had better than even they do. Petty arguments and disagreements that hardly even make sense to me, like why he would kiss her, or whether or not I should go to summer camps. Those like the latter especially confused me even at the time, because I simply didn't understand why that argument was happening, and I wasn't allowed to have a part in it.

Even before I remember anything of my life, these kinds of arguments lead to my parents living in two different houses. Of course, I grew up like that, so for a long time I didn't even realize that that was something out of the ordinary. Regardless, for nearly my entire life, and certainly for all that I can possibly remember, my parents have lived separately from one another.

Eventually, my mother had to move out of the condo that she was living in, due to a series of health problems she was struck with. She got an apartment in a different part of town, closer to my dad's house so that she would be closer to someone who could help her if something happened, and we spent a weekend moving her in.

More than all of the arguments and separation problems, this single weekend was the worst part for me about the problems between my parents.

While we were moving things between houses, we were using multiple cars. My dad's car, which was a standard, small car, and my grandpa's truck. It took us a few trips, and after the second trip, I had an idea to prank my dad. You see, in his car, you could pull down the back seats and open up a hole into the trunk, so that you could store longer items. I had the idea to slip back into the trunk, and when dad came out to put stuff back there, I would pop out and surprise him. The backseat could only be opened from inside of the car, but I wasn't too worried about it. I would only be in there for a minute or two, and leaving the seat open would give away where I was, so I closed it behind me.

Unfortunately, no one told me we weren't using that car on the third trip. 

After a few minutes went by and the trunk didn't open, it began to occur to me that perhaps I had made a bad decision. I kept waiting, and I heard them loading things into the truck, but no one came. It was the middle of summer, and the longer I waited, the hotter it got.

I started screaming. Screaming for dad to come get me, I'm in the trunk, please come get me. Please dad, it's me, I'm in the trunk and it's hot and I feel like I'm dying, please please please. 

But no one came. 

I don't know how long I was actually in there. It felt like hours. It was probably only half of one. By the time my dad realized that no one knew where I was, I had given up screaming. I'm not sure what gave them the idea to check the trunk of dad's car, but they finally opened it up to find me curled up into a ball and crying.

It turns out that my screaming had been muffled by the car, and so my words were unintelligible and distant sounding. They thought the neighbors were beating their kid. I didn't help anymore that day with moving. I just stayed in the house and tried not to cry anymore. 

It was a long time before I got over that. Just the sight of an open trunk sent shivers through my spine, made my eyes water, and made my stomach churn.

This was when I was in first grade. It took until roughly high school for me to get over that fear.