I find joy at times being in the solidarity of my own room.
No judgement, no pressure, no weight of the world can touch me unless I allow it to.
One of the things I thoroughly enjoy is daydreaming.
Daydreaming of things that have happened that could have gone differently.
Things that haven’t happened yet and may never be.
To get the pleasure of doing something so peaceful and freeing is truly something I do hold dear.
What I do with those daydreams and imagination is my second favourite thing to do alone in my room and that’s writing.
Writing is the next best thing to daydreaming.
My teachers yelled at me for daydreaming so then I used to write and create great stories.
After a few years and graduation I got scolded for writing poems and stories at work.
So now it was a confined activity to my room.
Never bothered me, was always fine with my oasis.
My cloak of serenity was always there for me.
My home life was very… None existent growing up.
Some say life was hell, some say life was grand, mine was just normal.
I was indifferent, just felt far from my dad because he was a workaholic, my mom was happily depressed and my sister was never home.
So I had a sweet little spot of doing really whatever the fuck I wanted.
I was not an incredibly rambunctious child, I had my moments of rebellion but I respected them,
So either I was at a friend’s house or I was in my room.
Sitting, thinking, working, relaxing, daydreaming.
My sanctuary has always been alone in solitude or surrounded by people I enjoy and enjoy me.
I guess that got complicated in recent days since isolation only allows loneliness and I may have taken a little more time than bonding allows when being accepted into a new family, a new home.
I miss my home but not as much as I know I would miss my husband if I went home.
I want to make a new way of comfort so that there may be harmony in being a happy hermit.
And a family who is confident I’m not secretly a psychopath, or even worse-
as depressed as I once was.