PC: Sonia Señoráns
...Manifests in my room.
It's a mess.
Every other part of me is tidy and in place. Even when I feel sloppy in my attire, there is a decorum underlying everything.
My room, on the other hand, is chaos.
There's the table next to my bed. The top level is a mishmash of scribbled in journals, electronics, and books. Mixed in the fray of debris and my tax papers are beauty sponges from Sephora and tea tree serum. On the throne of this table rests two things: the plastic fishbowl where I save my tips and loose change, and a tarot deck that one of my best friends gifted me.
The second shelf has an empty cigar case, my high school yearbook, and travel sized body scrubs from the body shop. Various DVDs and a PSP are intermingled. I also have a copy of my college newspaper and old gift cards with only a few cents left to spend. I can’t bring myself to throw
them away. Underneath the table are boxes, like the one my tablet came in, and one for my portable charger. They're the things companies insist we keep for which we never find a place.
I have no fewer than three mugs in my room. They are never used for drinking, but rather hold all of my pens and markers. One of them has a men's razor in it that I contemplate using on occasion. I have small pencil sharpeners in miscellaneous locations, but I never write in pencil.
My floor is a landscape view of a mountainous range of clothing and paper. None of it is necessarily garbage—mostly old receipts and shipping logs from my online shopping habit. These are things that should be filed away neatly in to assorted regions of rationality. One should prepare for tax season year round. Clothing should be accessible and orderly.
The mountains extend to my bed where I've made a valley in the hills for myself to sleep. My bed is a haven with it's off-white sheets and pillows who can never stay in their cases. I have a duvet somewhere. It's been a few days since I last saw it. I face the wall in my sleep, curled in a way that would make claustrophobes sweat. I like feeling like someone is holding me, and since I sleep alone, the cramped space is the best I can do.
This is where I rest and wonder if I'm worth loving, if I'm actually doing okay as a person. I sit here and wonder if my grandfather would be happy to see me again. Sometimes, I want to visit him.
He's been dead since 2009.
My walls are lined with art though I own more than I display. I have posters up, three to be exact, and two paintings. My other art sits on top of my dresser, which I strategically hid in my closet in order to have more room for my clothes to settle on the floor. The rest of my walls are covered with fraternal twin bookshelves(one is shorter than the other) who are overburdened by my love of reading. The books are stacked with no order and are hosts to other knick knacks, which include but are not limited to: my shell collection, a pine cone, and a dulled mini katana that I purchased years ago.
My actual sword, which is also dull, leans against the shorter of the two bookshelves, entangled in the cord for my record player. I have a desk, but I do most of my writing in bed. I want to buy a sturdier desk, but I have
nowhere to put it. This desk is flimsy and is covered in all of my makeup. Cosmetics are an adulthood hobby on which I've spent thousands of dollars feeding. I want to feel shame when I look at my desk, but instead I feel excited. Makeup is fun.
If I were to allow myself to physically sink into my depression, I would be well-hidden by the piles and collections I've amassed over time. My room is raw. It holds all of me. All of my mess is manifested in my worldly possessions. Every now and then, I clean it and start with a fresh slate. I meticulously make sense of everything. It all has a place. But, then I forget to put a shirt away. Or, I buy a new book with no shelf space to spare.
Sometimes, I'll order an outfit that doesn't quite fit the image I had in my head, and leave it discarded on the floor. I'll look up one day to see that familiar mountainous landscape and I'll wonder how I got there.
Didn't I just clean my room?
About The Author: Rodjinae Brown
Rodjinae (Rodi) Brown is a college graduate and writer born and raised in Compton, CA. When she isn't reading, she's tweeting incessantly about her dog and working on her next personal essay. Most of her writing centers on social issues, as well as her method of dealing with her anxiety and depression.