Tricks we play on ourselves
I had a weird moment a few days ago, one of those brief bouts of disorientation I suspect we are all familiar with--but a strange one, for me.
At the time I left my parents' house, my bedroom there was no longer a place of peace for me. I was overwhelmed by the sheer amount of crap that I had accumulated, and paralyzed by the enormity of the task that would be cleaning or culling it. It put a huge amount of stress on me, so that I rarely slept well.
When I moved into my house, my bedroom here became the new "safe space" where I went for comfort and rest. So I really haven't thought much, at least not fondly, about the old bedroom since I moved.
But the other night as I was just tipping over into sleep, I had one of those moments of disorientation where you forget where you are. The sound of my house settling became my parents' footsteps a floor below; the neighbor's dog barking became our late Dalmatian, asking to be let out; my bed was the same bed, but in a different place, and I was tucked safe into it, in a bedroom that's no longer mine. My brain really believed for a moment that I was in my bed in my parents' house, at the age of 18 or 20, safe and comforted.
It wasn't bad, or anything. I guess it was just odd to me. Why would my brain go there, now? Usually when I'm seeking comfort that I can't find in my own surroundings, I look to my childhood--the years between 5 and 12, and indulgences like The Neverending Story and ice cream--rather than my teens or early 20s.
At the time I left my parents' house, my bedroom there was no longer a place of peace for me. I was overwhelmed by the sheer amount of crap that I had accumulated, and paralyzed by the enormity of the task that would be cleaning or culling it. It put a huge amount of stress on me, so that I rarely slept well.
When I moved into my house, my bedroom here became the new "safe space" where I went for comfort and rest. So I really haven't thought much, at least not fondly, about the old bedroom since I moved.
But the other night as I was just tipping over into sleep, I had one of those moments of disorientation where you forget where you are. The sound of my house settling became my parents' footsteps a floor below; the neighbor's dog barking became our late Dalmatian, asking to be let out; my bed was the same bed, but in a different place, and I was tucked safe into it, in a bedroom that's no longer mine. My brain really believed for a moment that I was in my bed in my parents' house, at the age of 18 or 20, safe and comforted.
It wasn't bad, or anything. I guess it was just odd to me. Why would my brain go there, now? Usually when I'm seeking comfort that I can't find in my own surroundings, I look to my childhood--the years between 5 and 12, and indulgences like The Neverending Story and ice cream--rather than my teens or early 20s.