my room, soft, poorly insulated, and warm, in a space, in the winter, is home, for now. i use it gently. i use it to take care of myself. let me tell you how i do it.

my nutritionist told me i should, so i drink an extra protein shake tonight. i empty my blazer’s pockets; i take the papers i’ve accumulated in my travels, tiny scraps, cuttings, receipts, all with memories attached, and place them in their box; i place them in their home. i take the clothes that have been loaned to me, and i fold them, and i neatly lay them down to rest, below my piano. i see a new prescription bottle on the table, and with no sadness in my heart, i tear off the first name. my name (as i still, sometimes, like to think of it) doesn’t bother me like it used to, but my friends want only to know me by my new ones. i rip it off, so that, after maybe a few sips of wine, or a long day, or when my thoughts drift to hazy days past, i don’t forget the angle of one of my tiny bottles, and let them steal a glance at something they don’t wish to know.

my reverie complete, i reach into my blazer’s inner pocket, and take out the used eyeglass wipes, to throw them away. i replace them with new ones from the box. my bangs are too long, and the oil of my hair frequently clouds my glasses. i don’t have enough money to justify a haircut, but i don’t mind, too much. i simply replace the eyeglass wipes in my inner pocket, and i know the next time i see a light-show, there won’t be any blur. the next time i watch a movie, i’ll see the pores on the actors’ faces.

i am new, and i feel as a child, here. with every action i take, i see the child i will be in the future, and i care for her a little bit softer, a little bit gentler. with each act of care, i give my future self something to trust. this is a fact worthy of reminding myself.

i remember the habits that take so long to build, because of my distractability, because of how much i get lost in myself, in others. misplacing my wallet, or my keys, has made me cry countless tears. i have decided, instead, to invest, at cost of so many present selves’ minor comforts, in my future self. my wallet and keys live in specific locations, now. my wallet is in the left pocket of my blazer; or, my wallet is in the tiny front pouch of my swissgear backpack; or, my wallet is in my tiny backpack. when i get home, it either stays where it is, or gets placed on my bedroom side-table on a small rack meant specifically for it. it never lives in the living room. it doesn’t go in the kitchen. i often desire to set it down in these places. i’m often annoyed with whoever decided on the rule that it has to go in these specific places when i want to set it down; but when i’m looking for it, i never feel afraid for more than 30 seconds. my keys are the same way. i am not often late.

when i was a child, i was late all the time. this is chiefly because of my mother. i would watch the clock tick and i would feel my anxiety rise. i didn’t like disappointing people. i knew she was more stressed when she was late. i wondered why she didn’t just leave earlier. i understand better, now. i hold it against her less. but as a child, i vowed that i, as an adult, wouldn’t be chronically late. it’s not uncommon for me to be the first person to show up to a social gathering. i consider this, too, an act of care for myself.

i took my shoes off in the middle of the room, but they obstruct the walkway, so i push them to the side, then i pick them up, and move them to where i keep the rest of my shoes. it takes a little time, but my mind is a little clearer. i wish every task in my life were so easy, but i remain thankful for the ones that are.

i move my few articles of dirty laundry from around the bed to the hamper. there are only a few because i mostly kicked my habit of taking off clothes and leaving them wherever i am. in many cases, i’ve learned to take a load off my future self by cleaning up something as soon as i finish with it. i never really want to. but the muscle memory is building. i don’t want to brush my teeth before bed, but i feel better when i do. i don’t want to move my clothes to the hamper when i take them off, but i feel better when i do. i don’t want to clean the dishes right after i eat, while i’m still digesting, but i feel better when i do. i don’t want to move my backpack out of the walkway, the center of the room, after i got home from a long day and just let it fall on the floor in relief, but the room will feel cleaner if i do. so i do it. it’s a meditative exercise. i tell myself that i’ll be proud of myself if i can do it, and then i am. on the bad days, it can feel empty. but on the good days, i’m beginning to learn that it can feel fuzzy. it can feel truly worthwhile.

every day, i think of my ex-best friend, and i miss her. but i exist in a state of ever-living gratitude for many lessons she taught me, and for the opportunity i had to ever know her, to be known by her. she taught me that most of making a room look neater is to clear out the middle space. with walkways free, stray objects limited to raised surfaces, and at least a little open space on each one of those surfaces, a room can look tidy enough to please the eye. it can look busy, but not cluttered. it will look lived-in. it will feel like a well-loved office where countless equations were written and solved. it will look like a home.

i turn the lights low, and i prepare for bed. i get up, out of my warm room, and i brush my teeth. i go to respond to any messages i may have forgotten, but remember that i’ve been trying to stay off screens before bedtime, for my circadian rhythm. i intone a silent apology to my friends, the ones who didn’t get a reply today. i love you still. i make sure there aren’t any hard objects in my bed. i lay the blankets out, so they’re untangled. i grab my sleep mask, and my mouth appliance. i take my nightlies. i place them back in my small backpack, so they’re ready if i find myself anywhere unexpected. i set an alarm for 9 hours and 23 minutes from now. i place my large squishmallow under my head. i place my small squishmallow in my arms. i lie down on my side, and i prepare for a morning and afternoon of more doctors’ appointments. i am tired in a way that will not change come morning. but i look upwards, and i whisper, “thank you,” for another chance.




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