The first night I collapsed into bed, exhausted by a weekend of moving and the stress of ignoring the grieve and stress of it all. My brain can only take so much, and so shut off my body, wincing only slightly when the almost 5 year old slipped into bed with me, mumbling, her cold feet pressed against my legs.
Last night, the room alight by a new, and much brighter clock, and startled constantly awake by a small kitten soon to meet its maker, I tossed and turned and blinked at the walls, not even lulled to sleep by soft clean sheets and the smell of Pine-Sol in the air. I thought some hard work would make sure I slept. Instead, I’d find myself woken by noise, and missing the familiar weight on the bed, the soft snores and warmth.
I can’t get warm these days.
Yet at the same time, while I’m tossed, as I stuffed pieces of our lives into garbage bags, retrieved from a dirty floor, I felt peace. I felt delighted, carving my own space out, to see the floor gleam, to dream of what color I want to put on the wall instead of the grape purple that hangs. I started moving books, plotting position, pulling out my old artwork, pondering grabbing my easel.
A space for me. A place where I fit, and make sense. Space to breathe and move.
It’s almost like I’ve been thirsty for years, and just stopped noticing. I have always needed this space, and was always denied, given, at most, a small corner of the bedroom, not really mine. Room where who I am, where the words and pictures that make ME up can live and thrive, the room from my dreams with candy colored curtains and pillows to lounge away lazy Sundays strewn along the floor. A room that stretches to meet me, a room in which I am real, and not just some bookworm with no voice.
I miss him. I do. But I miss me too.