I stoop to pick up my slippers from the now-faded carpet, worn down from my constant traversing back and forth, from the many miles I’ve walked to find my home when it was here all alone. I am treading water that has been trodden before by those much more worthy than myself, and yet I do not feel like a trespasser. On the contrary, I feel more like myself than I ever have before, conscious of the “me” in my dreams, conscious that the “me” I see when I’m looking for myself is no perfect reflection, but content to let it be.
My slippers now on my calloused feet, walking a straight path to the scene of my greatest triumph, and of my greatest tragedy, the bedroom that has lain empty for far too long. Sheets rumpled on the couch are testament to the sad state of things in the room that is usually reserved for sleep. That bed holds too many memories, too many reminders of a life gone horribly wrong. I stop in my steps, fuzzy slippers pausing in the way that has become all too familiar as of late. I cannot enter, I realize once more, as I stay rooted to the spot of my shame. My utter shame living in my only home.
But a house is not a home, and a bed does not make one safe. I tell myself this knowing that I will never truly believe it, nor will I ever gather the strength to finally leave. I pivot on my heel as smooth as an ice dancer performing a pirouette, and I turn on the TV to watch reality, sinking onto the couch amidst the tainted sheets, content to forget my troubles, losing them once more in comedic timing and laugh tracks. Losing myself once more to mediocrity and repression.
Alone. All alone.