I love this bedroom. The one I'm in and the one pictured--which was my bedroom in the fall of 2009--the first time Kay and I broke up. In these rooms I learn to be lonely and like it.
On Saturday I came home at midnight with a headache. No roommates were home. I had accidentally not really eaten all day. I took my box of Ritz crackers up to my room. I was my nurse. Get into a tank top, wet a washcloth, lay still, say a prayer of thanks.
I remember those first nights in Fall 2009--those nights of "No one even knows what I'm doing." I expressed this concern to Muff, who told me to call her and let her know when I was going to bed. I took her up on it. A few times. But I didn't really need to be accountable. I needed to know I could.
I texted her this week. Even though it was 3 AM her time. I let her know--I'm going to sleep, and someone should care. Because I am a living person, and for a while, I won't be conscious. PLEASE SOMEBODY CARE--there's an urgency in realizing you could die in your bed, and no one might realize until three days later.
I think that's right. Sometimes I don't see the roomies for a week straight. My sister would say, "Hey. It's been a while..." but what could she do? Who would she be able to call to check up on me? Chelle would probably call. If I missed rehearsal, she might come over. If someone was home, they'd come to my room and...
I have this wonderful, just wonderful, memory of that 2009 room. It was a Friday night and I was just writing a letter at my desk holding my hamster in my lap.
Today I woke up lonely, and now its midnight, and all sorts of things have happened to let me know I'm loved. Impromptu hellos from no fewer than seven--not an exaggeration--seven faraway friends. I sure liked those lil hi's, but I didn't gulp them down. This is good stuff here on my own.
Letters to Noelle--
marked up cardboard boxes fell.
I fell with them.
Crushed like them.
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