[I wrote this post over a month ago when I went home for Thanksgiving break. I didn't post it because I thought it was kind of dumb. It's ironic how the post starts off.]
I’ve mentioned before how I sometimes start posts but don’t finish them. I was looking at some of the file names of these unfinished posts and I noticed how one of them was about my bedroom. I had started that post when I was supposed to be studying for an exam. Sick and tired of being cooped up in my apartment and staring at medical texts, all I could think about at the time was being at home in my old bedroom.
I received a text message from my mom a few weeks ago asking me if she could throw away some of the CDs and DVDs that were in my room. I hated when my parents or sisters take something or throw away things from my room.
When I refer to “my room” I mean my room. Not the room I sleep in now on the main floor whenever I go home. That used to be the guest room and the only new things added in there that I use are a desk and a pull-up bar.
My room is directly above the room that I use now. It used to be my sanctuary. Big stereo, big bed, posters all over the walls, green tie-dye sheets, big desk with a leather executive chair, little trinkets and memorabilia collected over the years scattered on my dresser and all over my room, books, magazines, DVD's, and CD's in a corner—those are the things that made it mine.
I was watching an episode of Dexter the other day and the main character was having trouble coming to terms with the idea that he may have to give up his apartment. His apartment was his private place of bliss where he could keep everyone at a distance and just be alone with his thoughts and secrets. “Everybody needs privacy, some more than others. That's why god created golf,” another character tells him.
That’s how I felt about my room. I loved staying up late after everyone had gone to sleep and watching movies, listening to music, reading, or just lying in bed. That’s how I recharged myself and how I collected myself when I wasn’t busy socializing or doing productive things.
Whenever I used to do “visualization” exercises suggested to me by different people, I always pictured myself walking up the stairs, going into my room, and diving under my covers on my bed. I’ve only been up to my room about three times in the past two and a half years.
When I went home a few weeks ago, I asked my mom why I was having to choose what items to keep from the boxes of CD's, DVD's, electronics, and random stuff that were under my bed.
“Your youngest sister needs a room, too,” she said, “and we already use your brother’s room as a guest room.”
That hit me hard.
I was upset when I asked my parents for my stereo so I could take it to my apartment and I thought they had thrown it away (thankfully they were able to find it a few weeks later in the attic). It’s hard to see things I had in my room being used by others or put into the attic, because of the memories and attachments I associate with things. It sucks that I often dream of going up to my room but cannot do so and that I haven’t even seen it in over a year.
It looks like the goal I’ve had of one day walking up the stairs and going to my room by myself and lying on my bed will really never happen. That’s a tough reality to accept.
I’ll never feel at home in the former guest room that I sleep in on the main floor whenever I go back home; that’s not my room. I don’t really feel at home in my apartment in Athens because most of my time is spent in my study room. I know this sounds dumb to a lot of people, but this is important to me.