Finally Choosing Me

After working a 12-hour night shift, I usually get home around 8:30 in the morning.

By that point, I am officially done peopling.

Unfortunately, getting from the front door to my bedroom requires navigating several obstacles.

First, I unpack my lunchbox and refill my water cup because apparently I cannot travel more than six feet without hydration. This may explain why I own approximately 20 cups.

There may or may not be a conversation with Nana. The quality and duration of this conversation depend heavily on whether she has put her hearing aids in.

Then there is Eva.

Eva’s preferred greeting involves repeatedly headbutting me with her very large head until I understand that whatever I thought I was doing is less important than giving her my undivided attention.

By the time she’s satisfied, I’m generally covered in short white hair.

There may be mail.

There may be packages.

Considering my impulsive shopping habits, there are probably packages.

Eventually, though, I make it past the obstacles and reach my destination.

The mom cave.

I open the door and enter a room maintained at approximately 62 degrees, because apparently I’ve decided my ideal sleeping environment is somewhere between comfortably chilly and meat locker.

And there, usually waking from her slumber, is the little demonic master who actually controls my life.

Lucy.

She looks at me with an expression that could mean one of two things:

Why did you wake me?

Or:

Where the hell have you been?

It’s difficult to tell.

Either way, I have clearly inconvenienced her.

I make my way into the bathroom, where Lucy follows to supervise my activities and enforce whatever time constraints she has decided are appropriate.

I wash my face. Freshen up. Get ready for bed.

Meanwhile, I consider all the responsible things I should probably do before going to sleep.

I could put my shoes in the closet.

I could put away the latest bounty from my impulsive shopping habits.

I could straighten something.

Organize something.

Be productive.

These are all excellent ideas.

The bed and Lucy usually win.

And honestly, the room is pretty hard to leave.

My queen-size bed has two-toned purple bedding. I have my makeup table and my desk with my computer. There’s an ergonomic chair with cervical and lumbar support—and plenty of Lucy’s handiwork displayed across it, because apparently ergonomic furniture also doubles as a scratching post.

I have shelves displaying memorabilia and books I’ve read.

And books I’m going to read.

Eventually.

Probably.

My bathroom currently has no floor rugs because I got rid of the old gray ones and haven’t found replacements in the correct shade of purple.

I have standards.

The little room housing the toilet has Halloween decals on the toilet and black-cat pictures on the walls. One announces that a cat will be with you momentarily. Another features a black cat peeking around a door asking whether you’re pooping.

Because apparently even my bathroom needed a personality.

Then there’s my closet.

Among other things, it contains more than 15 small jackets.

Do I need more than 15 small jackets?

That’s really not the point.

The point is that they’re mine, I like them, and they have a home.

Just like I do.

When I’m Done Peopling

My room isn’t only where I sleep after work.

It’s where I go when I have officially decided that I am done peopling.

Before graduation, retreating to my room didn’t necessarily mean I got to relax. There was usually homework waiting for me. A presentation to finish. Clinical work to submit. Something hanging over my head that needed to be completed.

Now, when there aren’t outside responsibilities demanding my attention, I can actually do absolutely nothing.

And I have discovered that I am remarkably talented at it.

I can read.

Watch TV.

Listen to an audiobook.

Engage in some mind-numbing scrolling.

Participate in some questionable online shopping.

Basically, all the activities recommended by absolutely no productivity expert anywhere.

Of course, that’s rarely the plan when I wake up.

I wake up with intentions.

Today I’ll do the laundry.

Today I’ll put away the things scattered around my room.

Today I’ll hang those pictures I bought.

Today I’ll organize that area I’ve been staring at for the last three weeks.

Sometimes I do.

There are days when I get motivated and can clean out or organize an entire area of my room.

Other days, I look at the task, know exactly what needs to be done, genuinely want to do it…

…and can’t seem to start.

I struggle with ADHD paralysis. The desire is there, but sometimes the task feels so overwhelming that doing nothing somehow becomes easier than figuring out where to begin.

So I stay in bed.

Which, naturally, Lucy strongly supports.

She prefers that I remain horizontal and available to her at all times.

There’s Peace Here. But There’s Something Else, Too.

I love my room.

I love the people in my house, too.

Those two statements can exist together.

But my social battery has approximately the lifespan of a cheap flashlight battery.

When it’s depleted, it takes a long time to recharge—even when the people requiring the energy are people I love.

So sometimes I isolate.

I retreat to my room because I don’t want to interact with anyone. Not because they’ve done anything wrong. Not because I don’t love them.

I just don’t have anything left in the battery.

And this is where my sanctuary gets a little more complicated.

Because there’s a difference between coming here because I need peace and staying here because it’s easier than stepping back out.

I’m still learning where that line is.

I spent a lot of years feeling like I didn’t quite fit anywhere. And despite all the changes I’ve made—to my appearance, my lifestyle, and the way I think about myself—I haven’t magically transformed into someone who feels comfortable putting herself into a lot of social situations.

Even with family.

That’s one of those things I’m still working on with my therapist.

Because apparently choosing myself doesn’t mean I get to declare every behavior self-care and stop examining it.

Rude, honestly.

Sometimes closing my bedroom door is exactly what I need.

Sometimes I need 62 degrees, purple bedding, a book, mindless television, and absolutely nobody asking me for anything.

Sometimes I need to recharge.

And sometimes I probably need to open the door.

I’m learning the difference.

Maybe that’s part of choosing yourself too—not just figuring out what brings you comfort, but learning when comfort is helping you and when you’re using it to hide.

I don’t have that one completely figured out yet.

But I do know that after spending so many years being available to everyone else, having a space that feels unmistakably mine matters to me.

It doesn’t have to make sense to anybody else.

The purple doesn’t have to be the right purple for anybody but me.

Nobody else has to understand the jackets.

The black cat is allowed to ask if I’m pooping.

And if I need to close the door and be done peopling for a while, I can.

Of course, calling it my sanctuary may be slightly misleading.

Because eventually I climb into bed, perhaps listen to an audiobook for a little while, and prepare to sleep.

That’s when management arrives.

Lucy has to make sure I’m positioned to her satisfaction before she settles either on top of me, beside me on a pillow, or—more often than not—under the covers, spooned against my torso.

Once she has selected the approved sleeping configuration, it must be maintained for the duration of the sleeping period.

There is no room for variation.

There is no renegotiation.

There is certainly no concern for whether I can feel my arm.

And then, seemingly five minutes later, my alarm goes off.

It’s time to get up and do it all over again.

So yes, I finally created a little corner of the world that belongs to me.

I just apparently share custody of it with a tiny demonic dictator.