Last Night
My bedroom is blue. The carpet is black. There is really nothing significant about this, except for the fact that I picked out the color for the wall and the color for the carpet when I was, roughly, 12 years old.
It's funny how much my 12 year old self is similar to my current self. I would pick the same colors.
Right now, there isn't much else in my bedroom besides the walls and the carpet. Bed. Blankets. Pillows. A touch lamp that is on top of a small stand. Alarm clock. One small dresser. A box of fedora's. And me. Everything else is packed up in boxes downstairs in my living room. I'm moving tomorrow. And the realization just hit:
Tonight. Is. My. Last. Night. In. This. House.
I would be lying if I said there aren't tears in my eyes right now. I'm not quite sure if this is categorized as official crying or just being teary-eyed. The latter doesn't sound any more manly than the former.
Even so, I think I eared the right to cry about moving. I have slept in this bedroom for 22 years. In that time, the posters on the walls changed. The bed changed. I had a waterbed for quite a while. The furniture has changed. The ceiling, however, looks exactly the same tonight as it did the first night I slept here. I can't see it right now, because it's dark, but there is a small spot on the ceiling where the paint was chipped and then painted over. I probably painted over it when I was 12. In the morning, I'll see that spot for the last time.
A lot of things happened in this bedroom. (Yes, that too; but, get your mind out of the gutter for a minute!) I used to lay on the floor with a sketch book for hours, drawing myself or things that I liked. I listened to a lot of music in this room. I taught myself how to play guitar in this room. I built shrines to my favorite musicians, actors, and athletes at various times in my life in this room. Collections were stored here. I laid in this very spot many times and talked to people on the phone. Some conversations were as typical as any, while others had been arguments, breakups, sharing of bad news. I've spent so much time in this room thinking over choices that I've had to make. I've cried when I was sad in the exact same spot for the 22 years that this has been my bedroom. I was 21 or 22 when I had my first full on panic attack in this room (it lasted hours and I thought my heart was going to beat right out of my chest). I wrote letters to people in this room. I took pictures of myself, wrapped gifts, screamed at the world, wrote songs, kissed girls, spent hours laying awake in the middle of the night wondering if the world would be better off without me in this room. I dressed myself for Prom in this room. I put on three different graduation caps and gowns in this room. I tried on the clothing I wore to my wedding in this room. I argued with my ex-wife about how this room should be set up. Her wedding dress was stored under the bed for two years in this very room. I've woken up in this room from cold sweats and nightmares. I've feared that ghosts were lurking in the shadows of my room. I've had wonderful dreams in this room. I did homework in this room. I made my dad mad for putting tons of tacks in the walls to hold up magazine pictures, posters, and other things. My mom cried when she was helping me move into my room and she accidentally put a hole in the ceiling setting up a light fixture (haha! The hole was covered with a piece of brown tape for years until I finally painted over the tape). My brother and I chatted in this room. I played A LOT of guitar in this room. I chickened out on calling girls in this room. I did push ups in this room to try and build some muscles after being bullied at school. I plotted the deaths of bullies at school in this room. I hurt myself in this room. I hated myself in this room. I grew up in this room, loved myself in this room, smiled, laughed, cried, fixed things, broke things, made up, made out, made myself like myself...
I could go on. 22 years is a long time. So many memories. Some clear. Some not.
Right now, I don't want to go to sleep. Waking up means that I don't live here anymore. When I wake up tomorrow, my last night in my house will be over. I'll never sleep here again.
Whatever you've decided to call the tears in my eyes has graduated to actual liquid streaming down my cheeks. Damn it. I'm so emo.
When I was little, I used to say that I never wanted to grow up. For a very long time, I fought it. For 22 years, I kept my childhood bedroom...
That era, as of tomorrow morning, is officially over.
Tomorrow night will be my first night in my new apartment.
It's funny how much my 12 year old self is similar to my current self. I would pick the same colors.
Right now, there isn't much else in my bedroom besides the walls and the carpet. Bed. Blankets. Pillows. A touch lamp that is on top of a small stand. Alarm clock. One small dresser. A box of fedora's. And me. Everything else is packed up in boxes downstairs in my living room. I'm moving tomorrow. And the realization just hit:
Tonight. Is. My. Last. Night. In. This. House.
I would be lying if I said there aren't tears in my eyes right now. I'm not quite sure if this is categorized as official crying or just being teary-eyed. The latter doesn't sound any more manly than the former.
Even so, I think I eared the right to cry about moving. I have slept in this bedroom for 22 years. In that time, the posters on the walls changed. The bed changed. I had a waterbed for quite a while. The furniture has changed. The ceiling, however, looks exactly the same tonight as it did the first night I slept here. I can't see it right now, because it's dark, but there is a small spot on the ceiling where the paint was chipped and then painted over. I probably painted over it when I was 12. In the morning, I'll see that spot for the last time.
A lot of things happened in this bedroom. (Yes, that too; but, get your mind out of the gutter for a minute!) I used to lay on the floor with a sketch book for hours, drawing myself or things that I liked. I listened to a lot of music in this room. I taught myself how to play guitar in this room. I built shrines to my favorite musicians, actors, and athletes at various times in my life in this room. Collections were stored here. I laid in this very spot many times and talked to people on the phone. Some conversations were as typical as any, while others had been arguments, breakups, sharing of bad news. I've spent so much time in this room thinking over choices that I've had to make. I've cried when I was sad in the exact same spot for the 22 years that this has been my bedroom. I was 21 or 22 when I had my first full on panic attack in this room (it lasted hours and I thought my heart was going to beat right out of my chest). I wrote letters to people in this room. I took pictures of myself, wrapped gifts, screamed at the world, wrote songs, kissed girls, spent hours laying awake in the middle of the night wondering if the world would be better off without me in this room. I dressed myself for Prom in this room. I put on three different graduation caps and gowns in this room. I tried on the clothing I wore to my wedding in this room. I argued with my ex-wife about how this room should be set up. Her wedding dress was stored under the bed for two years in this very room. I've woken up in this room from cold sweats and nightmares. I've feared that ghosts were lurking in the shadows of my room. I've had wonderful dreams in this room. I did homework in this room. I made my dad mad for putting tons of tacks in the walls to hold up magazine pictures, posters, and other things. My mom cried when she was helping me move into my room and she accidentally put a hole in the ceiling setting up a light fixture (haha! The hole was covered with a piece of brown tape for years until I finally painted over the tape). My brother and I chatted in this room. I played A LOT of guitar in this room. I chickened out on calling girls in this room. I did push ups in this room to try and build some muscles after being bullied at school. I plotted the deaths of bullies at school in this room. I hurt myself in this room. I hated myself in this room. I grew up in this room, loved myself in this room, smiled, laughed, cried, fixed things, broke things, made up, made out, made myself like myself...
I could go on. 22 years is a long time. So many memories. Some clear. Some not.
Right now, I don't want to go to sleep. Waking up means that I don't live here anymore. When I wake up tomorrow, my last night in my house will be over. I'll never sleep here again.
Whatever you've decided to call the tears in my eyes has graduated to actual liquid streaming down my cheeks. Damn it. I'm so emo.
When I was little, I used to say that I never wanted to grow up. For a very long time, I fought it. For 22 years, I kept my childhood bedroom...
That era, as of tomorrow morning, is officially over.
Tomorrow night will be my first night in my new apartment.