a spot within a room of one’s own

Sitting down to write has become one of the most difficult things to do. Amongst the other messages that fly around my head, that mainly consist of getting up, getting out, don’t slide into depression, don’t stay in bed (of which I have never done yet still imagine I could and dare not risk it;) sitting down to write means sitting down to contemplate my thoughts and therein lies a trap. Nothing about my experience is special other than the fact that it is the only one that I will ever know and as much as I can pry on other people’s lives, they never quite provide the balm that makes any of this, easier. I’ve spent a long time hoping to find someone wired so similarly that I could just take a bunch of leaves out of their book but strangely this escapade has only ever led to a strange, singularly gay, heartbreak. So no, that’s not the way to go which means taking the long route and encountering a thousand paper cuts on the way. I find myself constantly balancing myself between the opinions of other people and when I’m not doing that I’m brazenly running into a burning building in an attempt to trust my own instincts, dance to the beat of my own drum, except the beat of my own drum is off-kilter and rarely interested in the protection or happiness of myself. And yet, I’m persevering and things are gradually taking the kind of fluid shape that I had buried way back in my mind’s eye years ago and I am moving with the change, and the change is happening, and it’s not just vape shops where Chinese Takeaways used to be, it’s new houses, new family members, new friendships within old friendships, co-habiting, a cat. And as we go, Instagram slogans flash in and out of my head, with amaturely dramatic psychotherapeutic demeanours, showing me in pastel colours how all of this mess can be harnessed if I just did this, or thought this (points to the edge of the screen,) is there a chance I’m co-dependent, what’s in my blind spot and can everyone else see it, am I settling down just because it’s easier, am I emotionally vulnerable enough, are we all just pretending and if so, when do the credits roll and we all reveal the outtakes that ease the pain. Am I so sensitive that none of this matters and I have too much time on my hands that really, I should be dedicating to something much more important. With this much to think about, it’s barely surprising that I haven’t indulged in sitting still for more than half an hour. But today … I have. And though I maybe only wrote about how many weeks, months, years it took me to sit down long enough to write, I’m going to trust it gets easier because apparently it does. I strongly agree with Virginia Woolf about a room of one’s own, and my extension to it if anybody is asking, is that a woman or afab person needs ‘a spot’ within the room of one’s own. One where they can perch with everything within arm’s reach because if your brain fights the quiet as much as mine does, then there’s nothing so lovely as the imprint of your own butt to welcome you down.