a room of one’s own

7/1/99

Mom and Dad’s

When I lived here I spent all kind of time in my room. Doing homework, reading, daydreaming. Especially daydreaming. When my room was clean it was the perfect balance of schoolgirl clutter. I cultivated that look with posters, books, stuffed animals—lots of girly paraphernalia.

I miss the sanctuary of my room. Where I could listen to music or make out with pillows. Where I danced crazy as if nobody could hear me thumping around up there. I felt comfortable and safe.

I don’t understand how parents can expect older children to share rooms. Am I scarred? Am I excessively private because I had my own room from the age of 5? I can’t imagine not having my personal space, available at all times. If you can’t afford two rooms, you can’t afford two kids.

When I shared rooms in college I was never completely comfortable. I liked Marilee and I loved Eric, but the feelings were always there: 1. Someone could walk in at any time. 2. This space is not mine. I share this.

There’s something else that allows me to share space with John. Part of it is being so comfortable with him. Part of it is having enough space to move away from each other at times. When we lived at Willowtree we had no space, and we almost broke up that year.

So it does come down to space. Maybe others can stand to live in crowded little houses with lots of people. I grew up in a small family with a big farmhouse under the horizon-to-horizon skies of a very flat state. I need space.

*** the title of this entry is copped from Virginia Woolf.