the things we take for granted

Sometimes it is the little things that make a big difference. I can't tell you how wonderful it felt to have an underwear drawer for the few days that we stayed at The W. I know. An underwear drawer. It sounds silly, but it is true.

Being in this transition one of the things that has become clear is that truly I have no space of my own. Although there is plenty of space in this house where we are staying, there is no space that is truly mine. I have no desk. I have no closet. There is no dresser, so I have no drawer. There isn't even a night stand on my side of the bed where I sleep. I have boxes and my luggage, but that is it. For the most part I have adapted. I don't let it take up too much space it my head, but it is there somewhere.

It just felt good to open that drawer and see my things all neat and organized. To know that they would be there when I needed them. That these things weren't bothering anyone. That they were where they belonged, at least for the time being. It is hard to explain, probably because it is something we usually take for granted.

But having a space to call one's one, even if it is just a drawer that holds your clothing, is important to a humans well being. It gives us a sense of control which aids in our feeling safe. It also helps us feel like we belong.

I know that many of these feelings and anxieties stem from moving around so much while growing up. When we first moved to southern California my Mother, sister and I lived in a tiny one-bedroom apartment. Until my Mom got back on her feet we took turns sleeping in her bed, so every other night I slept on the floor. Then we got a pull out couch and my sister and I slept there, even after we moved into a small two-bedroom house. I used to get awful bruises on my legs from hitting the metal bar on the bottom when I would get up in the middle of the night.

Initially our room housed a bunch of boxes. I am not even sure what could have been in there. And it seemed like close to a year before we finally got bunk beds and claimed the room as our own. Of course sharing a room with my sister was no joy. The girl was a pig, and sometimes I think proud of it. At one point I had had enough of it and so moved all of her stuff, including her bed into the hallway. Of course when my Mom got home I got to move it all back, as it was explained why my sister could not live in the hallway beyond the fact that her mattress was now blocking our only bathroom. I was probably 11-years old when this happened.

Five years later when my Mom and I would move into a brand new condo on the West Side, it would take me years to realize that my bedroom furniture was the only thing that wasn't new in the house. At the time I was just so thrilled to have my own room and bathroom, not to mention going to this amazing school, that it didn't click. Although on some level I did know, and it did have an impact.

For although I did have my own room it was made clear that it was on loan to me. When I came home from college the first time, the bunk beds were gone, and my room had been converted to a den, complete with pull out couch (that took at least six weeks to order) where I found myself sleeping again. Once more the bruises returned, and were deeper than just marks on my skin.

It has taken a lot for me to ever really claim a space as my own. One big things for me was setting up a desk and claiming it as mine. But even after finally setting it up, it wasn't long before I allowed it to become a dumping ground for things that had no space. This is one of my big issues, and I continue to work on it.


on the night stand :: The Art of Mingling