After almost two years, someone found this blog. I had two entries and I suppose those two entries did what they were intended to do. But the fact that it was found, opened up a new idea, maybe a new purpose to explore this topic again. After all, I’m still single at this moment. And, it has a been an interesting year for “him” – Maybe I can explore that here and where that year has lead me. Maybe I will see you soon.
I don’t know what to think about my bed anymore. Yes, I even have to have an opinion about the place I sleep. To me, sleeping alone, has a built in tension. First of all, I love my bed. Extra thick mattress, queen size, high off the ground. I even splurged and purchased some 500 thread count sheets. (They feel a little better than the college 100 thread count sheets I had.) I have all of these stand-in boyfriends called pillows. Is there a direct correlation between the amount of pillows on your bed and your relationship status? If there is one–I’m single as hell. At last count I was at six pillows.
I love sleeping by myself and I loved it even more when I was in a relationship. That bed, without him in it, was a refuge. I could sneak delicious naps before he came over underneath the blankets. I could be the first one to grab the cold spot on the edge of the mattress that he would destroy as soon as he came over and spilled onto my side of the bed.
But when I chose the single life for the first time, my bed became a tangled mess of restlessness. I thought I was doing myself a favor by trying to savor the bedspace that would be all mine–for as long as I wanted it. But soon enough, I started to fill my bed. I didn’t even know how much was in there until I was forced to clean it out. I couldn’t sleep and I knew it was because I could hardly move around in there. It was if I was trying to not sleep alone at whatever costs. Books, journals, papers, phone, and six pillows. I didn’t have a chance.
I cleared off the bed. It immediately felt larger and those cold corners spread further than my toes could reach. The bed felt empty. And I had to deal with that. That emptiness was in my mind, in nooks of my brain that held them secret from the rest of me. I had to peek under those nooks, seeing, understanding what made me hide them there in the first place. Now, I have the opportunity in this still confusing place to allow someone to lay there with me. I already know that it is temporary, but is worth it?
Is there already too much tension on this sore spot?
If you died right now, what would people find lying around your house? In your bed? I had to think about this the other night because I thought to myself, “Oh shit girl…they gon think you damn crazy in here.” I had about four books, a remote, my iPhone, pens, all kinds of shit in this bed with me. I cleared it all out one night just so could I know what it felt like to sleep alone. When you have all that stuff underneath you, beside you, sleeping alone isn’t really real at all.
Now, I found this journal in the bed with me. They are everywhere, half used, started with good intentions, but never finished. I flipped through hoping not to find that scary girl that appears at night sometimes. She is a horrible person to be around…crabby, ultra-sensitive, and not really confident. But this girl I found in my journal–I liked her. She wrote, “I need to take some time off from this stuff. Maybe even six months to a year.” No date on the entry. But I really didn’t need a date on it. I just knew that at one point I had this idea, but I didn’t take my own advice. Maybe I wasn’t ready then. I’m ready as hell now and I’m right in the thick of this shit too.