I had a list of things I was supposed to do last weekend. Basically, it’s a list of things I’m supposed to do every day. Things from the simple (shower) to the mundane (laundry) to the complicated (figure out what values you want to live by and start implementing them into your live) and the terrifying (write down an account of all of the abuse you’ve suffered). Did I get any of it done? Not really. The only thing I did get done was start this blog. I suppose I’ll get kudos for that from my shrink. But I avoided doing everything else. Avoiding stuff is the one thing I can honestly say I’m really good at.
The fact is I’m a coward. I run—well I don’t run. That would require physical activity and my circus-lady fat makes that difficult. I hide. Usually in my bed. You’d figure, since I spend all that time in my bed, that my bed would be the most fabulous thing I own. It’s not. I sleep on discount store sheets with a clearance comforter, both of which have developed holes. My mattress is a cheap twin that I barely fit on and it sits on the floor. I don’t have a bed frame. But it’s what I can afford.
And it’s mine. I paid for every bit of it. Every hole is from a nightmare I thrashed about and kicked through. Every dip in the mattress is from my fat curling into as tight a fetal position I could get into. My bed is a testimony to my survival as a human being the past few years. In that bed I recovered from surgery, broken bones, suicidal impulses, irrational angers, overwhelming fears, migraine headaches, deaths of dreams and births of ambitions.
I love my bed. It’s me.
Since my bed is me, it should follow that I love me. But I don’t. Maybe because my bed is the part of myself that I can’t embrace. The fragile, bleeding, vulnerable part of myself that I don’t allow to come out anywhere else but in my bed. I hate that part of me. I avoid dealing with it. And in that avoidance that part of me gets bigger and bigger until I end up in a different kind of bed.
One in someone else’s guest room because I’m homeless and have avoided myself into helplessness.
Or one in a hospital because I’ve avoided myself into hopelessness.
I may love my bed, and I may be good at avoidance, but it’s about time I learn to love and be good at something else. It’s mundane, it’s painful, but it’s necessary. And one day, it’ll be me.